The lines of elderly poets grow slack and flabby and unresponsive, like
_______the skin on the back of their blotchy hands.
Elderly poets avoid the beach, or sunbathe only in loose shirts that
_______hide their droopy tits from the cruel lenses of digital cameras.
Elderly poets drink whisky in airport bars, staring lecherously at
_______the slim girls in short skirts,
Droolingly unaware of the fact, that misspelt text messages from
_______tan boys in flipflops set their hearts aflutter more surely
Than all the putrid melancholy of Rilke, all the shining theogonies
_______of desiccated gnostic castrati.
Come, my soul, lips fragrant with the pulp of the mango,
We will have nothing to do with them, at all, ever.
We shall embark for the ell-square mangrove key
In our leaky rowboat, which we shall incinerate on the sand
Before we give our flesh up to the black buzzards,
Our ribs to the cleansing scour of sand and gale.
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