Mar 152014

by Sy Roth



Antarctica chill.

Above, a sky crammed with dusty grey clouds

a slate upon which an ancient loopy script

written by a chalk-board bad boy

who said he will not a thousand times

but he does.


Wind kicks grimly at the ground

Dust swirls and rakes the hems of their clothing.

Cameras snap sandpiles of pictures of

their wily smiles that blossom beneath their noses,

ensconsed in icy, raspberry-sorbet hearts,

beneath their Savile Row suits and Dior dresses.


Their hands clap each others’ shoulders

past their meandering stares,  mired in their untruths.

Their circadian promises, rhythmic oaths of allegiance

betrayed in wry w’s etched in the corners of their eyes.


Sign accords with their enemies

Drowning  them in rhythms of unspeak most cannot hear.

Cast their lies to the wind

and attach them to the clouds above with promises of

“I will not”.


Later the others query,

Et tu