Is poetry nothing more than the expression
of a morbid narcissism ?
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At the funeral of poetry
I sent my parrot .
who knows the customs.
It wears formal habbits
of pumpkin\'s ritual ...
after the mourners\' song,
the marching band
launched into a oompapah requiem .
Absence was holding the hand of dementia
and the lord of flies went off
to collect a few souls for the poor ...
At the lost illusions pub ,
death arrives on the twilight express ,
bringing with it our guilty silences
and moment of forgetfulness...
Scultors of twisted worlds ,
in this lunar chamber
woven from shameful fantasies ,
you will recognize in these decayed words
this vain reflection of your vanity ...
Rag dolls and unloved puppets
sending out announcements into the clouds
which will fall at the foot of an inspired grave
where a distracted poodle will left its paw...
Welcome at the funeral of poetry !