
Don’t hold out a torch
for me, I am not free of blame. This
is the dance of life where all are
culpable, soon to be drowned in
washes, the mangling gears
of pain. But who knows, these maelstroms
might be wormholes, revealing other
worlds and tableaux of night; dressings
of props across cold stone walls, taken
and rebuilt from dishevelled remains.
And where bards once played on stages,
hidden behind arras stitchings
and nom de plumes, we are all still
mere punters in pits macabre, holding
torches for celebrity – look at them, drunk,
high up with their gods of gold
© poem copyright David F. Barker 2013
What a Gorgeous Grunge David
Punters and Puppets both, the craving for the ‘higher Gods’, the selling of the ‘lesser ones’
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I love this, David. It is the kind of poem that keeps me reading as it creates a thirst inside me to see where it goes next. It feels rich and epic and sumptuous – like I am sitting in a theatre absorbing the lines.
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This is very nicely put 🙂 William Shakespeare would have thought this so, I think…
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Hi. I like this, especially ‘punters in pits macabre’. Your ends of lines are interesting… each one is exactly right… Jane
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Many layers here, Dave. I like the mention of wormholes. I find that an intriguing curiosity–thought provoking!
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