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I Was Goya but Now Pretty Cows

I was Goya but now pretty cows

in vague comprehension roam regal

the once catacombed earth; the platforms

of chided performers jut bare

and up comes Lazarus one rainy

spring moment to bewail his fellow’s follies;

seizing the pulpit he laments

and shrieks–pleads politic to cows

who murmur bovine dissension–

then fades in ghostly prophetic stature,

the last heralded heretic beseeching

with a crackling, increasingly incoherent platitude


And the fields of recess

are cemeteries newly etched

And gravestones obstruct

the passage of children


Invisible Democracy! the amphitheater

echoes whitish and serene, relaxed

and uncrowded in the leisure

grinning cracks, breeding

cement with grass which crass

invades to vacate desolate ideologies;

the poor players have exhausted

their scenes, and sun-exposed their shadows

at last but now pretty cows

commend the landscape:

mooing concessions, merds, cud, udders

fantastic and untapped–this would

have irked me Goya but now pretty cows

inhabit the kingdom