"Throstle" (1998) by Steven Ilchev

THROSTLE
/Steven Ilchev, 1998/
================================

It’s the topic of discussion,
Like the sound of the percussion,
Of how many times have humans
Caught a bird

Rain of bolts befalls the webbed crier
Who connects to crimson flowers
That are hovering in dour silly worlds

Jokers stare at a garment of a lady
From a playground where anybody
Is a pig at heart

And the kings would be crest-fallen
Their servants, fungous wardrobes,
As the princess would be married to
A nerd

Befog! Befog! Befog the solar system
Which bundles thousands of despondent
Souls

Befog! Befog! The blood red microbes of
Materialism that slouch through these
Defenceless veins and bones

Prism of cotton in alleys blessed with
Yarrow motors the frazzling feet of
Poorest, poorest… those who aren’t known!

Between the birded cage,
O so dethroned
And the pipe of sin that
Puffs encyclopaedic rigmarole

The handsome cataract let such
Bushy hair down
While the catamount would never cease
To moan and moan…and moan
Never cease to moan

Too dear is the booming way
Invoiced at the homes of catastrophic
Everydays

A callous melody composed by
The golden burning hay;
Is it today? Is it today?

Hey throstle, throstle, throstle
Galvanized with hope; this plastered
Robotland
That breathes such toxic waste is your
Picturesque belief in the wonderful victory
Of benignity, so salted in the abandoned shaker

A throstle with a sun-kissed self-expression
Presenting his cheerful lyricism – lyrics for
Givers and takers! Lyricism not ever naked!

Like the sound of the percussion
A thud tells the throstle
Of the bloody stampede that awaits
Some miles away

That evergreen throstle decides to sing
One lasting song… and blast!
Without taking these moneys
That may have been offered for the dirt
In some pockets noteworthy or so
Our throstle undresses…

And kindly receives a beating that so banishes him
And leaves him stranded to the nest-egg of security
On the driest branch of all… of all

One such throstle – what a beau of a wealthy look
One such throstle – what a man of the lover-gun
Reeling with devious contradicting looks
That would solemnly butter the bread
On the ever-burning hay,
Burning day by day!

Between the birded cage,
O not so dethroned
And the forgiven pipe of sin
That still puffs encyclopaedic rigmarole

A home of catastrophic everydays would
Play its tales for centuries and on
Through a battered enigmatic gramophone
Beside the blackened unrecognizable forgotten
Hay!

For now it cruelly burns the puppy words of new:
"’Tis bitter, bitter time to…
buck the golden pay…"

‘Tis bitter, bitter time to suck
the lively courage out of the priceless golden
sunset-moronically-purified ray…