A Ruined Nature

[Brownlie]

 

In nestled trails where busts of bronze men perch
on their immortal placards at the head,
I had soon sauntered far away from the
incessant self-applause of nature’s famed
cascading blowhard as it crashed around.
It did not appear as sublime to me,
this feigned clapping of a stoic fall.
As, from the jagged cliff, violent seeming gallons
poured, stirring up a sweaty foam
from the illusion of a working human earth,
the whole theatrical performance
struck me with a  subreptitious rudeness.
Why you I cried amidst dumbfounded crowds
of fellow amblers lost in the lustful scene.
You pail dropping mass of still rapid awe,
I toddle not among this wide eyed brood,
They all cry with hunger through their teeth,
And you, you egg the bloody infant feast.
I will not suffer, stupefied as one
who holds a plastic bucket by the surf
and builds fake castles made of shifty sand.
You cannot tempt me with your inspired pail.
Nor will I break in goo goo ga gas
free of sense and lost to fitful rage.
Guffaws and stern harrumphs are all I offer you.
And then, as if I cried an honored curse
that the god Aeolis had heard and marked
with favor over supplicating praise,
a large zephyr rushed inside my chest
as I raised my head in high harrumph.
I was soon booed by all the clapping noise,
but jeered toward a more tempered joy
as I am, encased in quiet woods.

[tectak]

 

In nestled trails where busts of bronze men perch
on their immortal placards at the head,
I had soon sauntered far away from the
incessant self-applause of nature’s famed
cascading blowhard as it crashed around.
It did not appear as sublime to me,
this feigned clapping of a stoic fall.
As, from the jagged cliff, violent seeming gallons
poured, stirring up a sweaty foam
from the illusion of a working human earth,
the whole theatrical performance
struck me with a  subreptitious rudeness.
Why you I cried amidst dumbfounded crowds
of fellow amblers lost in the lustful scene.
You pail dropping mass of still rapid awe,
I toddle not among this wide eyed brood,
They all cry with hunger through their teeth,
And you, you egg the bloody infant feast.
I will not suffer, stupefied as one
who holds a plastic bucket by the surf
and builds fake castles made of shifty sand.
You cannot tempt me with your inspired pail.
Nor will I break in goo goo ga gas
free of sense and lost to fitful rage.
Guffaws and stern harrumphs are all I offer you.
And then, as if I cried an honored curse
that the god Aeolis had heard and marked
with favor over supplicating praise,
a large zephyr rushed inside my chest
as I raised my head in high harrumph.
I was soon booed by all the clapping noise,
but jeered toward a more tempered joy
as I am, encased in quiet woods.

This is languishing brownlie Old Bean...and I think I know why. You need to TELL the crits what you took JUST before you wrote it. I have no idea what it is about in this state of normality, for which I am as famous a the violent seeming gallons. Huh and harrrrrrummmmmph!
Best,
tectak

[just mercedes]

 

In nestled trails where busts of bronze men perch
on their immortal placards at the head, I had problems envisaging bronze busts on a placard - they kept falling off.
I had soon sauntered far away from the
incessant self-applause of nature’s famed
cascading blowhard as it crashed around.
It did not appear as sublime to me,
this feigned clapping of a stoic fall. I'm seeing you at Yellowstone, Old Faithful, and not being impressed.
As, from the jagged cliff, violent seeming gallons or maybe Niagara Falls
poured, stirring up a sweaty foam
from the illusion of a working human earth,
the whole theatrical performance
struck me with a  subreptitious rudeness.
Why you I cried amidst dumbfounded crowds
of fellow amblers lost in the lustful scene.
You pail dropping mass of still rapid awe,
I toddle not among this wide eyed brood,
They all cry with hunger through their teeth,
And you, you egg the bloody infant feast.
I will not suffer, stupefied as one
who holds a plastic bucket by the surf
and builds fake castles made of shifty sand.
You cannot tempt me with your inspired pail.
Nor will I break in goo goo ga gas
free of sense and lost to fitful rage.
Guffaws and stern harrumphs are all I offer you. I get lost here, with the pails.
And then, as if I cried an honored curse
that the god Aeolis had heard and marked
with favor over supplicating praise,
a large zephyr rushed inside my chest
as I raised my head in high harrumph. high harrumph - a great expression!
I was soon booed by all the clapping noise,
but jeered toward a more tempered joy
as I am, encased in quiet woods. Almost a Walden ending

I take it that the narrator here is not impressed by tourist attractions.

[Brownlie]

Thank you both for reading, this one was a bit of a prattle.  I suppose the bronze heads came out as some surreal floating objects along with some mysterious pails thrown in.   I think Mercedes got it pretty good. I was going for the more annoying version of Mont Blanc.