Conclave Of Imps
The palms lose their balance
boiled in a cast-iron sky that
rattles its lid in a steam-engine wind.
I walk here alone, far from the wet-country
bitter with night coffee and gypsy bad dreams.
Dreams start so well--full-skirted, dancing
with warm wine, soft whispers and wanting--
to end as a moonscape of concrete and slag,
a juice of war enriched with uranium,
goose-stepping soldiers and killing machines.
Why does reality invade me like a border state
occupy my ears with its sugar-rush newscasts
besiege me with idiots and their paper tiger words?
Instead of a candle we get thermonuclear glow,
smothering wildfires, powerless streets.
Instead of sweet reason, a conclave of imps.
posted for Brendan's Juice
Images: Melancholy Atomic, 1945, © Salvador Dali Fair Use
Palm Tree in Hurricane Irma, via internet. Public domain