Tales From Café Apollinaire:
Variations on Distilled Dreams
There is a poet here
at Café Apollinaire who echoes
the despair of Baudelaire
making his own funeral arrangements
desiring to be cremated his ashes ground up
into flour for making Baguettes
his blood purified and blessed
distilled fermented made into wine
left for a year then drank
by his mourners some perform a Mass
here is his blood here is his flesh
others wearing prayer-shawls and yamakas
recite the Kaddish -
At night Surrealist-saboteurs
agent-provocateurs anarchists
of all types and brands
paint trees orange and purple
use pressurized paint-guns at random
redecorate the sky hang paintings from Sky-Hooks
laying rich lush green carpeting
on the streets hang bouquets of baguettes
from lampposts cover rocky-cliffs and mountains
in rainbow coloured satin sheets
hang bags of coal from the ceiling
of Café Apollinaire setting loose
Giant Leopard Slugs and snails
to crawl over tables and chairs
outside Vampire Bats and Vultures
circling as we eat our meal
provided by the Ancient Mariner-
Someone announces poetry and art are dead
the Muse standing amongst us
collapses on the floor
we can hear her death rattle
she shows no signs of life
having been deconstructed
she drowns in an ocean of reality
painted in monochromes
of grey and white -
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