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