The Dark Continent



Skeletons of men or trees in winter creek
as dreams find no peace with dying days
and hollow men march in hollow rage
across a continent abandoned and lost
to mongrels and serpents of sly failure.

It is not I that call for dark jihad to flow
like hot blood in the gutters of no tomorrow,
nor do I call for men of straw to circumcise
or sharpen the blunt point of no return.
I am the slow food that dogs reject.

No man is more than his understanding
and no understanding is more than the man
that can conceive more than his feelings.




Poetry by Bob
Read 649 times
Written on 2010-11-10 at 10:21

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Ferenc Inigo Beck
A brilliant "think" piece
2011-03-05


Brian Oarr
Your best poems, Bob, always have the surreal quality of a Gustav Klimt canvas, but in print. This is one of those pieces which has me standing on my head attempting to feret the meaning of each line. It is delicious exercise! :-)

Brian
2010-11-11