Those good old days

Those good old days

Those good old days
when bad is branded bad,
these days, when brandied
is preserved in parameters,

You sit and rock in your wheeling
chair, whirling so much of
speculations on the mad, brash
mass around you,

what melody can a thrush pour?
what succor a parrot can repeat?
when threnody they sing
in owl’s inflicted nest?

You close your eyes only to
open, witness the uncouth
mass, messy, believing into
impossible, implosions,

the sticky wall posters in
the supermarkets fly high,
you unrobe only to be
more opaque , visible to

the wicked transparency,.
giggling all the times.