Poetry Festival
Creative
writers in a state of brain death
neglect
to tailgate the poetry festival
Their
readings echo tinnily in a labyrinth
which
on first blush seemed navigable
but
the lack of Dionysian frenzy blinds them
all
walking identical paths suddenly are lost
Their
mishmash words drone haltingly
as
panels debate orthographic conventions
Someone
nervously mentions the Minotaur
in the drifting haze from a subterranean
river
Out
beyond the literary muddle profuse fireworks
crackle
electricity in stormy bright white pulses
Mayhem!
Chaos! The beast is loosed on the crowd
Poets
scuffle and run knocking each other down
The
festival like a San Fermin raceway surges wildly
as
the Minotaur gores, stomps and snorts angrily
From
a swaying flagpole above the battlefield dais
I
survey bloodshed, screams ringing in my ears
A
great bronze-sheathed god leeringly appears
There
is no escape from the cockpit of death now
Clubbing,
spearing and hacking life from the bards
The
steely attacker seeing red is bereft of mercy
Relentless
rage pervades the closing ceremony
leaving
plentiful food for vultures, flies and rats
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