The dryness of good champagne
never ceases to amaze
its deceptive attack
laced beneath the bubbles
like the ambiguous lilt
the gilded aftertaste
that scours the froth of Operette.
These haunting traceries
the frisson of excess
mark a vanishing world.
the waltz invites
betrayal with élan
l'amour, and its delicious death
A certain kind of innocence:
the teasing tessitura
of the playful gods
swirls above their swift demise:
soon, to soon
the glory expires
breathless with discontent.
How did that
blitzkrieg of dictators
the rat faced demons
standing on the edge of hell
in their high leather boots
appear so suddenly
in the glitter of their own special disorder.
Their legions of death
raced across the burning veldt.
in the theatre of war
machine guns strafed the bloodied stage.
the swirling globe fractured
consumed on a gauleiter’s sneer.
Does the canary sing
ever so sweetly
as the light expires
as the rancid air
works its way
through every artery and hiding place?
Sing nachtigall, sing
Is it those sweet thin voices
their utter simplicity
that denotes the end of time
pour le temps perdu
like the one last kiss
before annihilation.
The gauze and silk of memory
weaves a trail
around their stark decay.
Sing nachtigall, sing
in frenzied fire and bitter tears.
Sing!
Gar Jones – May 2014