The pageantry of youth by Connor Deeks

The pageantry of youth is on display,

Young men and women run beer carts to seats.

Neither of them think of their bodies' needs,

It yearns for water to quench its basic need.

A youngish pair walks wired at the crook'd arms,

High on life and drugs they took earlier.

Neither of them think of their bodies' needs,

It yearns for water to quench its basic need.

The crowd criss crosses from the side stages,

Finding food stands that will take only cash.

Neither of them think of their bodies' needs,

It yearns for water to quench its basic need.

The pair skips everything but the main stage,

Thoughts can only focus on one thing now.

Neither of them think of their bodies' needs,

It yearns for water to quench its basic need.

They are a pair lost in the thousands here,

A single star lost in the galaxy.

Neither of them think of their bodies' needs,

It yearns for water to quench its basic need.

Young life floods the outdoor theater today,

It's the third day of a three-day concert.

Neither of them think of their bodies' needs,

It yearns for water to quench its basic need.

The punctual blitz of tickets in hand,

Runs by the entrance gates to center stage.

Neither of them think of their bodies' needs,

It yearns for water to quench its basic need.

The two lovers talk aloud to be heard,

With no one to hear in the crowd's low roar.

Neither of them think of their bodies' needs,

It yearns for water to quench its basic need.

Too soon their laughter rises and travels,

Too soon their pupils dilate and wander.

Neither of them think of their bodies' needs,

It yearns for water to quench its basic need.

The path leads down further into the pit,

Where music will exhaust the ears of all.

Neither of them think of their bodies' needs,

It yearns for water to quench its basic need.

They stumble down lost in each other's hands,

Skin as soft as the grass beneath their feet.

Neither of them think of their bodies' needs,

It yearns for water to quench its basic need.

He falls first, dead in the ecstasy of ecstasy,

Then her, dead in the ecstasy of ecstasy. 

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Poem of the Day: Not the Song, but After

Posted: Sat, 27 Apr 2013 00:00:00 -0600

Now everywhere the pageantry of youth

      is on display:

The squeal of bike chains spinning through the gray

     plays fugue to puddle-froth;

The punctual blitz of hyacinths in April

     ushers spring

with lavender dripped from the upturned wing

     of wind-swept Gabriel.

A youngish pair walks wired at the arms—

     she casually ribbing

him, he lightly brushing her breast, jibbing

     their step to spare the worms

stranded along the road. Too soon, their laughter

     rises and goes

drifting toward silence. And now the young man knows

     love’s not the song, but after—

like the mute, remembered chorus of the rain

     that stains the walk

long after falling, or the lifeless stalk

     still hoisting its head of grain.

Uneasy now, she loosens from his hand.

     Their dark familiars

stare back, reflected by the passing cars,

     with speechless reprimand.

Before the chill, each chartered hell grows hotter,

     yet every burn

will teach him how to run—and how to turn

     her wine back into water.