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Once between the curtained sleep and the dog day afternoon, I beheld some of the diamond world in the darkness of my room. Glittering before my disbelieving eyes: the poet, the prophet and the sinner. Each costumed appropriately, each looking sideways right at me. And some women come and go scattering starry dust To and fro. The poet affects a persona of intense nonchalance. He furrows his silky brow as if to catch the mysteries of the world In there. Quoth the journalist of desire: "Prithee, sirrah, One can glimpse a lady fair, But can she be touched just anywhere?" With a bow he steps lightly back and the prophet catches my eye. No dour faced sage is he. Opulent like a president, Coiffured like a pimp is he. He grasps my gaze In a charismatic grip and recites by rote Some obscure commentary on some equally obscure quote: "Both Ayn Rand and Karl Marx clearly have said, That together or individually, we are all better off dead." Seeming to regret the outburst but with hand held firmly open, He drops back out of sight. The sinner enters. Beggar man in beggar clothes, his is the stewardship of sighs. Starry dust is flying now as four and twenty women sprinkle to the skies. He stands immutable, is sin truly death? Then his visage shatters Searing yet another grand allusion Across the grayness of the fiery air: "My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look on my works, ye mighty and despair!" All goes black and I awake or at least Leave that twilight world. Parting words still stick with me: "Muse on love, politics or sin And we'll be back to help you out again." |