[In memory of T. S. Eliot]
Oh grandfather clock, ticking away moments that start and stop our day.
May those that pray, with empty recitals of your scriptures, not be so heavily burdened with phony predictions.
Your heritage may be of Clement origin but we, the Swatch era, are your next of kin.
Within us, your dormant truth will no longer lay sleeping.
The time has now come, for the resurrection of ghosts and the freedom of your love.
Pope of Russell Street, forgive our bleak composition. Originality and the development of morality have not become our testament.
Our construction has taken focus upon the expansion of society’s weaker elements; world of fornication, voyeurs, exhibitionists, posers, masochists and fake anarchists.
We are Her Majesty’s swans in a lake of royal vanities.
Poetry is an art of no wrong.
I tell to them, judge not the style but measure greatness in the questions, the fairness of thought and the openness of heart.
Honesty and truth are a great writer’s attributes.
Honour not those dream weavers who offer false fables to their readers.
Through tunnelling tubes underground, with mice we scurry around.
You have seen the sun rise and our children will watch it set, as we mourn only the moments we neglect; those lost in the mess of sewers, of burning flesh, derivate from the ancient brewers of zest.
Blessed are those few, blind to passion, perhaps simple in mind.
Although today even they have become vulnerable to the devious kind.
With rules and penalties structure has been traditionally conformed.
Ever modern man shapes and skews these ways, losing truth in the pursuit of fare days.
I dare say we build on the parts of unholy remains, proceeding towards a vast tomb of homeless kings.
Therefore hell is what the psychic messenger brings.
Its dwelling hymns, anthems that our own church bells ring.
Be it with the sun after the moon, our spirits then will sail onto you.
Let our concrete path be forgotten in the aftermath of philosophical venture and tropical missions of religious affairs.
Then may poor souls rest within the violets and reds of tenderly polluted skies, where we will barter lies of history for smiles and glory.
We cannot put in print a conclusion to the story, for many more chapters need noting still.
We will charge our own work with its silent ending, pending those edits and re-writes by doting followers.
Borrowers of our literary farce, as writers continue to march.