The Last Poet, a poem by Steven Fortune at
Slava Abramovitch

The Last Poet

The Last Poet

written by: Steven Fortune


‘Let’s sing another song boys.
This one has grown old and bitter.’

A presence unraveled
from the leisurely advance
of his dapper strut
like unhurried wine
harnessing its spillage
into the expanse
of a piqued tablecloth
The fedora-crowned epitome
of an eclectic country’s
aptitude for cultivating
menacingly charismatic
citizens of the world

The paper underneath his hand
was sure as feminine
in voluntary thrall
with a fingernail on the border
of reflexive / absorbing the
extension of his empire
like the ‘filles du roi’
that warmed the beds of
his ancestor province

The most colloquial donation
to a budding conversation
sprouted aphorisms on
exultant wings of engagement
through a cloud of cigarette
smoke that levitated
on his lips like incense

In his absence
all that resonates is syntax
and mundane matter-of-factness
Coffeehouses cybernate inebriated
chortles like pledges of allegiance
to artificial stimulation
and seduction plays down
to hit-you-ups egged on
by gangsta rappers
The new philosophers
in the riot-shaped stadium of rhyme

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