A Barroco Fantasy Stirred in A Baroque Broth By Sy Roth


You appeared in unpredictable form,
Misshapen Quasimodo,
With twisted arms bent in elaborate rococo form
Plies of limbs twirling in a raging river like a tumbling home
Swept beneath a tsunami of wayward genes.

You promised to run away.
Scream your difference,
Mutated invention wrought from inventive silence,
A smoldering concoction
Roaring your melancholy dreams from stagnant wells
At the sameness that envelopes you.

Instead, they fashioned homogenization from their clay,
Reveled in it
Finding the sameness exhilarating.
They abided in a world too neat,
Made fabricated merry in a world run amok.

They observed you.
A weakness resting behind their awkward smiles,
Like a squirming babe left trembling in their sere hands.
They were promised perfection in gestation.
Instead, they heard ultra-sound weeping behind their closed doors.

An angry conductor moved his orchestra through Hindemith
In a cacophony that created you,
An act of bravado borne in a senseless orgy of disharmonic tinkling,
A Kristallnacht of creation made real in your newness.
The progenitors dressed you in all their finery.
Narrated a story for the others to hear.

But many turned away ,
Slipped unctuous peeks at the creation
And gasped at the rolling, discordant fox trots you danced.
And all of the expressive baroque creatures
Who played out their dreams across the world
Left their crooked world,
Gnarly, where the misshapen ones are tolerated
And adorn it with their difference.

Someone shouted across the room
The beauty of difference,
Found barroco pearls unrounded in their shell.
You are not like the others,
You bold, brash creation of difference
Planted in a world that buries its malformed.

The unadorned only stand somewhat erect
Wallow in the infirmity of their ungainly perfection,
Ego-imperfect beings ingest their millionth youthful creation,
Waddling, and hold it aloft until finally standing ramrod straight.

But, you, barroco beauty,
Roll along in your existential chair,
In Queen Nefertiti’s fiery chariot
Breathing curlicued, imaginary creatures into their air.
You reside in a world where the others
Ride around in their gas wagons until they all turn blue
To be planted later in unmarked graves
Where they melt into vague remembrances
Of a distorted the world of uniformity and straight lines
Made into entities where only smiling canines and incisors bleached white are seen
Suspended in Vonnegut’s world of puckered anuses.


©2018 Sy Roth (Revised February, 2019)


Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.