Wednesday, March 11, 2009

#385: Byron

A cad, perhaps, who never felt a thing
could not also be tasted, smelled, or heard;
his tongue designed to wrap around a word,
drape it in golden robes, and make it sing;

His fingers stained with ink, lips always curled
in wicked, mocking smiles; and yet a heart
to march to Greece and play the hero's part,
however much he claimed to hate the world;

No hope of heaven, wringing from this life
forbidden fruit, his sister by his side
(he could not take Augusta for his bride,
and so, in vengeance, sodomized his wife);

A devil, angel, dreamer, sage and child,
he whispers to us still--"Be wild. Be wild."

1 comment:

Scott said...

Admittedly, I'm not really enough of a scholar of Byron's life to be writing biopoetic paeans about him--but he's always been a favorite, and having watched a film about him recently, I felt inspired. I'm sure it's inaccurate and misleading, but so was he. Anyway, there it is.