Words without songs — II

"Darby's latest effort at poetry aims at the stars, but bounces off the aluminum siding." — Seattle Fish Wrap

"Mesmerizing, if you ignore the words" — The Complete Skeptic's Guide to Literary Pretense

"A none-too-eagerly awaited preview of his forthcoming collection, Wrinkled Fingers" — Robert G. Loophole, Aerolam Chair of Contemporary Poetry, Johnstown University

The Bardo of Skin and Paper

We looked behind the sofa to classify our fate
But found only dusty ideals and push pins to declare.
A chariot we borrowed from Zeus took us here and there
Among the tangled skies that sank beneath our weight.

You asked the Greek policeman, “Can these ancient words be true?”
Yes, you asked the Greek policeman, “Can these ancient words be true?”
He said, “Suicide gives better odds, but careful love might do.”

We thought our Elvis statue was showing signs of wear
And called a discreet repair man, but he wasn't in.
We found him behind his house, looking alarmingly thin,
Trimming the garden hedges, followed by his hair.

I sold my Coptic prayer rug when I had to make ends meet.
Well, I sold my Coptic prayer rung when I had to make ends meet.
The merchant said, “Enjoy your ends, but prayer is far more sweet.”

We sorted the ginkgo leaves while plotting a minor crime
Beneath portraits of your noble ancestors framed in lemon peels.
Our souls seeped into the valley, down where the moonlight congeals
And sacred marmots sip from the river that dreams our time.