Armani, sir, don’t you mind
The scales underneath the silk—
My tongue is worth a hundred souls,
My pen a thousand more.
The world, my throne, self-carved—
I think mere mortal knowing
Might yet be deigned to see
Some tracest memory
Of wealth, innumerable, that lies
Within this fairest grace.
Before the pride, yet rides The Fall,
One-winged angel recompense
With Hell and Fire resolute
This passion, wild, divine
Will never bow nor know
Another master but its own—
Smile through the pain,
For you and thee are nothing but
This maddened laughter spouts
From believer, knower, all.
Cast me down, you break me down,
It is of your own pathetic drives—
Kill it, beat it, des-e-crate it,
Such a base begotten crave
Of jealousy, and raunched salivation
Of those below the knowing
Of this manicured salvation—
All I need, the dollar, plastered
Forming yet eternal
The foundations of my history.
* Another poem for the wonderful Monday Poetry Potluck, as hosted by Jingle Poetry, and those lovely poets Amanda and Kavita! The theme this week: the Seven Deadly Sins! Lust was appealing, I must admit, but then pride came along in mind, and low and behold, these words sprouted–hope you enjoy.