Lives of the Poets - 3rd Acts

Maybe my Dad was right after all...?

Perhaps my Dad (God
rest his soul) was right
after all, when he said
(in Southern Italian accent)
Poets? They’re all dead!

Fragile souls who
couldn’t withstand life’s 
petty details, (death by a
thousand chores)--
sad casualties whose
claws dragged along
the concrete’s cold 
asphalt shores.

For example…

Take Mayakovsky 
whose 
Russian soul was off key
from communist masses,
he could no longer carry
Love’s grand piano
and make communism art
So he punctuated 
the end of his sentence 
with a bullet 
through his heart.

While Plath 
succumbed
to an angelic wrath, 
unable to
be a hausfrau
haunted by ghosts
of Dachau, 
stuck her head in an oven
to be with 6 million
other bodies
she tried to summon.

And the Baroness
who took the Big Apple
by storm with
proto punk finesse,
made scrap metal and garbage
into her glamorous dress.
But alas
was unable to
make ends meet,
and she floated away
into Parisian skies on a
cloud of mysterious gas.

Oh, 
and Crosby
(poor little rich boy)
suffering from too much black sun
snuffed himself out
with a gun
and talked another
spoiled rich dame 
to come along
just for fun.

And Pasolini,
told the tale of 
the Uccellacci e Uccellini
and with his name
ran his fame
into the ground 
with Salo--
like he foretold--
because the elites
don’t like when
their secret rituals
are on screen
for the public
to behold.