LOUIS PIRRO
the  D A G O S P H E R E
          o t h e r   p o e m s
&
DECHIRICO  DREAMS

Alienation
So stark and pure
Like a 1950's movie
but on the edge of another century
Or alone at night in Idaho
And everywhere you turn
    The light is brighter behind you.      
1 9 9 7  -  2 0 0 1
PENTIMENTI

Men tread paths ever narrowing
leaving them tiny specks in the distance
or sacrificial lambs at the alter.
I catch the scent of these other lives
through dream, genius, or conspiracy.
How quiet the world is
with all this slaughter.
Though we wouldn't have it
any other way.
THE SALAMANDER

An empty vessel now
the white salamander
Wriggles free
Fleeing mysticism and materialism
And heading back to the fire
In which it once burned.
ODE TO CHARLTON PRESS

Comic books and porn
by Italian masters
magazines printed on presses
for cereal boxes
low-budget, low-brow
entertainment
for masses and militia
with business conducted behind
curtains of smoke and red velvet
Mob run ?  Maybe ?
I knew the the Art Director
Jay Ragsdale
but of course
this is an alias.
 
THE DAGOSPHERE

magnified
by sun
tiny pools of oil
now glistening
everywhere
a billion
great slicks
on plastic
& skins
fabrics
and metals
once seen
this whole
greasy
dago-sphere
can't really
be clean
again
with or
without
papers
INQUISITIONS

10 million intellects
wait
in a
frieze-like grouping
above the
black eye
of a storm
hovering near
the empty chair
awaiting
executioner's orders
and Van Gogh's
letters
to Theo
afire
like the fly
under
a glass
THE LAST PAINTER

I am the last painter
And I have not had an easy life.

My only friends were the old masters
Everyone else has AIDS.

The Devil has chewed on my corneas like fingernails
And spat them at the sun.

The generation after me is fixed on video games
And remain at their play stations.

My work has not fared well
So now with this last gesture
Forget me...
SHAME

When I leave
the tree is red by neon light:
and I steal toilet paper
from a coffee shop.
      X -RAY GLASSES

I choose to act like a child,
but I am not a child.
The old man inside me
can see right through you.
                 THE LAST MASTER

I am the last master of a dying art
I have become fat and lazy
lack of discipline and disciples
leaves me down and out
the past towers above me like a tree
while I stumble around the roots and drink

MORNING ASSAULT

All lions come from broken homes
for love of mothers not.
Mornings assaulted
are resolved and restarted
by wayfarers, cave walls and cereal boxes.
Jets fly above couples in coitus
or monied suburbia proper.
While yellow police-tape keeps us all away
for today but not tommorrow.
(c) copyright Louis Pirro, 1997 - 2001
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first published in The  Temple.
( page 1 )
N E X T