All revolutions in love were literary—
until the sexual revolution (sex being a strong
element of love) broke the mold—
cinema, the Great War, the automobile,
and later in the century, birth control.
Irreverent poetry has no soul.
What other people do
unfortunately affects you.
You cannot love if love is not where
morality is. It hides, instead, behind your hair.
Utterly transformed, Beatrice is now some girl.
The old graces and rules are dashed
upon the electric steps. Nothing is cashed.
We have joined the loose brigade;
comforts and winks are written
everywhere; only what’s in vogue displayed.
Each poetry wars against the other;
I’m not able to do this anymore.
My agenda’s lyric
is a drink thrown in the muse’s face:
Not banned poetry—only unfinished.
Beatrice walking at a slightly faster pace.