The Fop

There was always
Something sweet
About your doggerel,

The pancake flatulence
Shaping words in a pan,

The hand
Of a 17th century fop,
Lost on a battlefield
Squirting perfume
On corpses.

A never planned
Guessing game,
A bad wallpaper smile,

You had style,
A thousand words,
Scissors and glue,
The curdled hope
Of a poet
And fool.

Too soon
Second guessed,
But with eyes
Diamond mined,

And your cufflinks,

Wow,

To see them shine
Was a rhyme forgotten,
A million glimmering angels
Tracing jewels into hillsides
And spitting out
Silver clouds.

You are the long gone
One sun
Glory.

And the irony
Was never lost
On me,

Your story
Is the sunlight
Through curtains
That dance.

2 Responses to “The Fop”

  1. Love the language here – so many intriguing lines, “The pancake flatulence / Shaping words in a pan” seems to stick in the head, for one.

  2. Thanks Holly Anne. I was a happy man when ‘pancake flatulence’ popped into my head 🙂

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