Alex M. Frankel
(aka Alejo Rovira Goldner)
I hope you can join me on Easter Sunday for the launch of what’s going to be my last book (for the time being?!) SO MANY MOUTHS AT THE END OF ALL BEAUTY- will be giving away copies, free!
I hope you can join me on Easter Sunday for the launch of what’s going to be my last book (for the time being?!) SO MANY MOUTHS AT THE END OF ALL BEAUTY- will be giving away copies, free!
But If There Is No God, Then Must We Submit to Oriana Grand?
Alexander de Grote perished from a lack of Twitter fans
on the nineteen-hundredth night of his beauty.
Like most of us he lived for all kinds of likes
in the flamelight of his machines.
Alex was a diamond worker
in the very mouth of Rome.
He died at the feet of Invictissimus King H—
or a statue of Such in the town center.
A sect of astrologers spotted the corpse,
got a load of students to help.
“It’s a shame,” they said,
“but who the hell was he?”
A sullen crowd attended
in front of the College of Prosperity.
Ten men-to-be-ordained, passing by,
beheld an image they called “the true sunshine at night”
and took it as a sign for this old stumble world.
The sirens bloated, the polyglot crowd thinned out.
They clearly didn’t give a Bronx dollar.
A dog of some sort came to sit on the corpse
and, crying, formed a miniature oasis of respect.
Some said it knew the corpse.
Some said it was just crying for the sirens.
A few translations claim this story ended there.
Most others say that two blocks north
a parade of Oriana Grand fanatics
happened to come marching in boisterous tribute.
It was fifty-two million souls strong,
including heads of industry
and many other members of the Game.
No amount of soldiery could contain such a horde.
God was only Prime Minister
for the first eighty-five seconds of this Earth,
but Oriana—in kimono and heels, she sat in a sedan chair
held aloft by girls and men and the axis of life,
a moment nineteen thousand years in the making.
People held phones and chanted for Oriana
and it was beautiful for a long time.
Alexander de Grote perished from a lack of Twitter fans
on the nineteen-hundredth night of his beauty.
Like most of us he lived for all kinds of likes
in the flamelight of his machines.
Alex was a diamond worker
in the very mouth of Rome.
He died at the feet of Invictissimus King H—
or a statue of Such in the town center.
A sect of astrologers spotted the corpse,
got a load of students to help.
“It’s a shame,” they said,
“but who the hell was he?”
A sullen crowd attended
in front of the College of Prosperity.
Ten men-to-be-ordained, passing by,
beheld an image they called “the true sunshine at night”
and took it as a sign for this old stumble world.
The sirens bloated, the polyglot crowd thinned out.
They clearly didn’t give a Bronx dollar.
A dog of some sort came to sit on the corpse
and, crying, formed a miniature oasis of respect.
Some said it knew the corpse.
Some said it was just crying for the sirens.
A few translations claim this story ended there.
Most others say that two blocks north
a parade of Oriana Grand fanatics
happened to come marching in boisterous tribute.
It was fifty-two million souls strong,
including heads of industry
and many other members of the Game.
No amount of soldiery could contain such a horde.
God was only Prime Minister
for the first eighty-five seconds of this Earth,
but Oriana—in kimono and heels, she sat in a sedan chair
held aloft by girls and men and the axis of life,
a moment nineteen thousand years in the making.
People held phones and chanted for Oriana
and it was beautiful for a long time.
© 2023 Alex M. Frankel (aka Alejo Rovira Goldner)
Alex M. Frankel (aka Alejo Rovira Goldner) was a Featured Poet at the April 2023 Second Sunday Poetry Series
Alex M. Frankel (aka Alejo Rovira Goldner) was a Featured Poet at the April 2023 Second Sunday Poetry Series