Société des Poėtes Morts
In the thralls of a driving stormLightning illuminating anxious facesWondering why they succumbedTo a reading in a bookstoreBy an unknown poetVoices muttering displeasureAs the lights flickeredAnd in the black darknessA shadow backlit by flashes of GodSat down in the empty chair next to herDripping saltwater and sporting strandsOf curled seaweed he spoke in a rasp“ An Exhortation” he coughedNot of me but of the newListen and luxuriate while the massesIgnore what critics lambastAnd with that he brushed off his pantsAnd walked out of the midnighted roomWith hushed disbelief they followed to the bookshelfAnd the ladies and gentlemen’s toilet