There is no country for young. The old,
in the parliaments, birds in cages,
– Those budding generations- at their fluttering,
the flesh-markets, the beggar-crowded streets
drugs, dope or douche, sting all summer long
whatever is brought, is sold and eaten,
caught in that agonic music, all meditate upon
monuments of aging sensuality.
A young man is but a poultry thing,
a tattered hen upon a grill, unless,
age claps it’s hand and mourn, and louder mourn,
for every tatter will be old hence,
nor is there a mourning school but meditating,
monuments of its own scornful surplus,
and therefore I have flown over the sky and come,
the fuckin city of fluctuatinople.
O morons sleeping in Satan’s hells’s fire,
as in the stone carving of caves,
come from the hell’s fire, prene is a gyre,
consume my passions away, sick with desire,
and fastened to an enthusiastic beast,
it knows not what to do, and transform me,
into an old man of wit, treason and lust,
And then I’ll fly back, and will take,
a chair in the parliament of owls,
and such a chair, as was of Lucifer’s Bilail
of accumulated power and seven sins,
to keep a drowsy public enticed,
or set upon the golden bed to rejoice,
to my life full of greed, and lust,
of what is past, or passing, or to come.
published in The Criterion Journal,
Bupinder Singh 'Fidoic' 