Poetic Justice

by Morgan Gregory

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I took a walk on a bright, bustling day
                                           and hoped
Poetic Justice will come in time...

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Neitzche's sense of smell knew more than philosophy could say
The Odour of Common grows stronger each day
Fermenting in the pugnacious stink of general
A hermetically sealed Titan held globe
The story of a god without a Job.

The month matters not
Sunday is dots by Seurat
And wicked packs of cards or knitting by Marlowe's fates
(Although wonderful reads, written well)
Are really inconsequential

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Poetic justice will come...

To exist? Don't ask: just hand out more putritol
Even the worse poet smelled not at all
Is it awful? daring? a moment's surrender?
Myopia flees and eyes that see wrong see
"Shantih" or drunk sincerity?

Must one press on with the doggy life of thrill
Growling cereal-box-wisdom, chasing Kate uphill,
Fueling the stink 'til it's Bleak London fog,
Barking larger-stronger-longer, making no sense
As god, Job, and Progress lecture from Prudence?

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Poetic justice?

Listen to inconclusive experiences and barking begins to mute
Look at the Fisherman and the fog exits the flute.
            To disperse putrid stench
Inhale the understanding of Old Masters sublime
And suddenly, you are able, stepping out of time,
                                                              To imagine...

Peering at Wordsworth's abbey, or plotting with Ricky III;
Watching a man cast his flies, or travelling to Canterbury;
Shopping at Goblin Market, or crying over little Jude;
Laughing with Sterne and Shandy, or dreaming with the Rood;
Listening as Tulkinghorn does not bleed...

Poetic justice is
          you eating a biscuit and learning to bark
          as I dance and sing in the scary and dark.



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