The cold mind of a philosopher
Might freeze love with a snowflake gaze
In the same dull ice that crystallises
Faultline truths on a heap of life.
Til hot dogma deigns them to preach
On politics, bearing confidence of the freeze
But narcissism is neither hot nor frozen
It’s just the mark of a certain childhood.
And poets who take their inspiration
From ‘religious sentiment’s’ gloaming cocktail
That quaintly drinks the soul with ecstasy
Til verses drop off the tongue like gold bricks
Think maybe religion is a knot
Their young life and guardians tied them of
And now its blank mythological verse
Finds acceptance among drunk critical cousins
These tender artists tend to sit
On good old knolls by the zenoic pool
(Far from the muddy estuaries) and swill
Till their daisy heads fall off and rot.