You censers of the dying,
Walt Whitman is dead.
Sado-poets, wanna-beez,
Latent homosexuals,
Lilacs bloom and scent
The corpse-filled grave.
Why pluck you them
For garlands upon stone:
Let the dead bury dead,
Let the leaves of grass
Burden corpse-filled grave.
You censers of the dying,
Your sanguine eyes surely see
Walt Whitman is dead,
And separate the chaff
Of dying from the wheat
Of death, separate scent
From blossoms bursting.
Yet I smell your reasoning,
I bake your harvest:
Why hum the body electric
When a stanza of bones
Needs resuscitating.
Go forth from here
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