Poem: Blancmange

 He is a young man

with a young man's walk,

but old Blancmange; 

Too sweet by far,

too much by far,

the syrupy confectioner of his own legend; 

His is a rummy's smile,

boozed up with his own

self-importance--

''Yes, yes'',he says with every bone,

with the marrow,

with his supple soul; 

The master-balladeer,

singer of panegyrics,

rotating prayer-wheel of servile supplication,

intricate carpet of covetousness,

clever and intricate no less, most likely to succeed I'm sure,

young yes-man,

pimp of the soul, 

cradle dog.

In youth, at least, 

one should not be so. 

----------- ------------------- ---------------- 

from The Anvil of Dreams, 1995