Friday, April 20, 2012

19 of 30 Elegy for Jay Ferguson

You are quiet now,
you brandisher of baseball bats
you psycho-billy dancer
crooner of the barlight

The city is burning, crumbling to wreckage
and you were the crowing rooster
atop the ruin, the song of the fire

The nights all run together,
until, blinking, in the closing time light
we are herded into the street
with tall boys in bags
with sugar-spun eyeballs
swallowing starlight

to wreck cars, to fight
to drink until the sun rises in rented houses
to pass platefuls of our own death 
And you, Jaybird
crown prince of wasted time
king of portugal, of cockaigne
of the orchestra of donkeys

You don't have to go home
but you can't stay here

No comments:

Post a Comment