Francis Poulenc

For years in and out of the streets, Among the bitches of the day, Christ-like….

Mirror-holding guttersnipes, most Of us flirted with faith As if

The world yoyoed only on turns of State and our jazzy jokes. Gradually

Everyone drifted apart to find Their own respectability And realm.

For me, Ferroud's death in Hungary Proved to be a turning point. Fanfare

Gave way to litanies, motets, and Tortured dialogues out on The far edges

Of the monastery mind, but I still Shuttled between the music Of the street

And the sanity of dogma. More than Milhaud or Honegger, I grew old

A young man still, a throwback, Derivative, tracing personal Origins.

Who is to say what flows on with The times and what remains Behind?

Before I die, a couple of sonatas Must stacatto Down

The years, reaching even before I Was alive — I do this to bury Myself.