The Poetry Post #2

The Bright Young Things

Livewire, raging fire,
Sparks flying everywhere;
Come burn in the flames of caustic desire,
Tell a truth, risk a dare.

We’re the Princes of the universe,
Born to rule, born to pave the way;
For the millions that come after,
In our hands shall the sceptre sway.

We’re the future of the race,
Burning brighter than rocket flame;
Racing to the top, masters of the game,
The pinnacle of the food-chain.

We play the music of purgatory,
Dance to the tunes of hellfire;
Fighting tooth and nail to win an unwinnable game,
Come burn to the music of common ire.

We’re the Princes of the universe,
Born to rule, born to save the day;
Drowning in kaleidoscope visions of love and hate,
Our eyes all futures await.

We’re the predators and the prey,
The darkness before first light;
We haunt the dreams of Kings and slaves
Of dark and luminous minds.

We’re the Princes of the universe,
Born to die in glorious wars;
Born of the flicker of a candle that
Obscured the solar mark.



The Beauty of Strange Lives

Strange passions, emotion
Felt through unfeeling eyes,
A vision in dereliction, devastation
A panorama of virtue and vice.
In the throes of catastrophe shines
The beauty of strange lives.

Blood and tears, grasping at straws,
Bullets, dynamites, the fireworks;
Fire-forged friends, cheap drinks, a broken cross–
Blazing trails in their wake leave the Young Turks.
Of darkest nights are born the brightest stars,
Famines birth messiahs; heroes, wars.

Strange lives in strange lands,
Live to die, and in death, reverberate–
In the neon lights of foreign screens
Images excite, enhance, desecrate.
The world watches, and cries and contemplates,
As blood mixes with stale water, and the headlines scream: violence escalates.

The beauty of strange lives,
That in burning, do not singe;
But warm at a distance; strange resistance,
To foreign aid, condescension, advice.
Statues and memorials raised, commemorate,
Strange names that, in passing, thrive.