Boisterous Walt Whitman celebrates

the Body Electric plays prophet

peddles his book of Blades of Grass

pestering patrons -



Merlin the Poser sets up shop

dressed in a black cape

uses a wooden walking stick

covered with carvings of snakes & runic signs

removes the Death card

& the Hanged Man from the Tarot Deck

to ensure brisk business-



Yeats pulls up a chair begins his commentary

on the ancient mystical Druids

talks of an armed revolution

out of which a terrible beauty is born

introduces himself to an invisible elf

refuses to leave the Café all day

fearing the slouching beast outside

dreams of the Isle of Innisfree

'til someone reminds him

there are no Cafés there -



Virginia Wolfe tells tales

of picnics at the lighthouse

her hearing impaired waves thundering

crashing all about her

she leaves stopping here & there

filling her pockets with stones

preparing for her journey

beneath the rhythmic grey Atlantic waves-



There is a poet here

who echoes the despair of Baudelaire

making his own funeral arrangements

desiring to be cremated his ashes ground up

into flour for making Baguettes

his blood purified & blessed

distilled fermented made into wine

left for a year then drank

by his mourners some perform a Mass

here is his blood here is his flesh

others wearing prayer-shawls & yamakas

recite the Kaddish -



At night Surrealist-saboteurs

agent-provocateurs anarchists

of all types & brands

paint trees orange & purple

use pressurized paint-guns at random

redecorate the sky

hang paintings from sky-hooks

laying rich lush green carpeting

on the streets hang bouquets

of baguettes from lampposts

cover rocky-cliffs & mountains

in rainbow coloured satin sheets

hang bags of coal from the ceiling

of Café Apollinaire setting loose

Giant Leopard Slugs & snails

to crawl over tables & chairs

outside Vampire Bats & Vultures

circling as we eat our meal

provided by the Ancient Mariner-



The romantic poet wearing a green

absinthe-stained-shirt recites

for the one for whom he lays his heart bare

wrapped in her cloak of cool blue shadow

of smoldering cinders

of passionate mysterious eyes

whose lips speak in mauve tones

presents a bouquet of purple perfumed flowers

brings her the head of Medusa

dripping blood into a basket of pomegranates

& golden apples of the sun

fiery stallions neigh & snort loudly

dreaming of pulling the sun

stamped with delicate butterflies

all to no avail

she averts her eyes

gets up from the table

leaves without a word -





Someone announces poetry & art are dead

the Muse standing amongst us

collapses on the floor

we can hear her death rattle

she shows no signs of life-

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