The Rebel Bohemian Club

When I Grow Up I want to be 
a Chinook salesman to the Rebel Bohemian Club,
to the Fat War Generals whose Future Heathcliff Statues
in city parks are yet to be carved from 
a Great Red Mountain of Pale Marble Sorrow. 

When I Grow Old I want to feast on an 
Anorexic Love that slopes lean and thin: 
a forgotten archaism; like French Harpsichord music
or a Forest Lute concerto, absolutely
unnecessary for our unabolished
Microwaved Battles and surplus
Army Ammunitions; moody bullets
and zealous powders sulking in a 
granite bunker, distressed by misuse.

Some may stare at my Taut-Skin-Soul—
Liposuctioned War-Fat Mind; Reinvented Skull;
my overuse of noisy Poetic Semicolons
that speak Unchangeable Hope
against the social Zeal of Hate;
and, of course, that Holy Gun I have never owned,
yes, that’s right, the one with the 
White Diamond Daisy stubbornly not growing
in its Serpentine-Metal Hair—the art of
an old wisdom, and an even older magic that
shamelessly flaunts a belief in Planetary Peace. 

When I Grow Dead I want all my
long decades of Adolescent Theory to smile wide,
to rehearse their old Courageous Faults about
desperately trying to stay potent, young, and true.
“I tried hard to be a Human,  
phony Second-Hand Thoughts, 
a smiling Refugee Smile wishing for starlight, 
a well of Private Tears trying to define freedom, 
Spiritual Depth the size of trendy puddles,
(and of course, those Braided and
Wildfire Semicolons burning across 
my life’s erratic Page of Poetry.)

I absolutely failed at Never Dying, but now
I am no longer trying, all I can hear
is the Shaman Moon crying,
“Love is Oxygen, Love is Oxygen,
a Glimmer Splash, a Storyteller of Magic am I
for all your weighty Soul-Footprints in the
Mud of an Oozy Existence of Anger and Unease.”
© Stephen Roberts

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