09-28-2017, 07:36 AM
A Poem About Brighton
What had once been chanced upon,
like a heavenly gift of supernatural bands
and poems without parades,
is now a tomb we cart about
full of rotting clichés
and blows to the head
like a relentless mistake
that just won’t die.
We go over the stones,
beside the sea—black, no matter
the time of day or the season—
past the church,
the hideous church,
reminding me that
every religion gets dressed before the dawn.
What had once been chanced upon,
like a heavenly gift of supernatural bands
and poems without parades,
is now a tomb we cart about
full of rotting clichés
and blows to the head
like a relentless mistake
that just won’t die.
We go over the stones,
beside the sea—black, no matter
the time of day or the season—
past the church,
the hideous church,
reminding me that
every religion gets dressed before the dawn.
