Defenestration illustrated.
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Sonnet: A Love Poem
by John Kendall Hawkins
.
Nobody says "love" very much any more,
unless it's entombed in hipster snark
that circles the "soul" like Brecht's penny shark
meant to make you feel like some window whore --
the what-became-of defenestration
of the babe tossed out with the bath water
into Brueghel's arms, a bonny daughter
borne of immaculate penetration.
Maybe I'm the only one without "love,"
lost since the clowns were shot from the "canon" --
Mighty Whitey besieged by Frantz Fanon --
the high-rise tumbler when push came to shove.
No one knows my Romantic gravity,
my "love" as a splattered depravity.
(Article changed on Jun 12, 2021 at 11:26 PM EDT)
