Rimbobarte never
could control himself.
He always shouted
out with hubris: Here I am,
Rimbobarte, greatest of the poets!
Pelf
and honours came
to him, and he swam
at the top of the
crest, vaingloriously: Hoorah
for me! Teratological knowledge expands
into grotesquerie
and farce—no type surer
than tautology
counting out the sands
on beaches
disappearing under swarming seas.
Guajolote, turkey
of the future, croak
into the brilliant
sunset, shaker of fleas,
Across the ocean:
sing until you choke.
Now, I a poet just
like Gongora,
Praise-sing for
the bird, the lyric you are.
No comments:
Post a Comment