saint cloud

saint cloud,
i feel the song of street voices
invade my heavy heart.
fin de siecle,
your golden kings are gone,
lalique, gallé,
your glassy veils
and nereid waves
swept away by
modernisme révolutionnaire,
and all those sweet
toxic distillations,
the jade-green hallucinations,
the sugar fairy coctails,
that ensnared you,
declared you,
filles de joie,
fleurs du mal
growing
the malaise in your soul.

verlaine, poor verlaine,
overthrown by love
and the boy poets daring,
ink-stained cupid,
cigarillo dandy,
he shot you through
with his sad poison songs,
he killed you dead with them
until you wanted only
to repay the compliment.
but all you did was shatter
his lovely wrist,
his delicate wrist,
and put yourself into mons,
loving him
hating him even more.

saint cloud,
angels of mercy,
collossal, heartless saints,
pantheon of pathos,
heroes of the heroic age,
you show us
how we like to think
we could be,
SHOULD be:
larger than the years,
eternally perfect,
always with that fresh marble
morning shine,
immortal and arrogant
and forever twenty-five,
not destined to slip into the sad dawn
rising over the bois de vincennes.

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