Forgive my gaucherie, but I must confess
to stifling more than a few yawns in salons
thronged with leg-crossing intellectuals
who flatulently posture as they hold forth,
flaunting how learned their minds are,
how considered their opinions,
decadent loungers eager to minish and derogate
inferior rivals, cretins by comparison,
savages only lately from the jungle.
In my defense, mind you, I always perk up
whenever platters of pâté make the rounds
while cerebral types in cravats and vests
drone on about grants and fellowships, of
bureaucratic impedimenta and petty grievances
festering into molten hatreds
manifested as strongly-worded letters
the contents of which would stun your nana.
The olives or kabobs are often to die for,
yet hardly worth the suffocating hot air
fogging up mirrors and windows and dazing
even the most obsequious sycophants
adulating ad nauseum their didactic idols,
pedants only too anxious to expound.
Well, thank God for exits clearly marked
and all those adjacent porches and patios
where more than once I’ve sought respite,
nursing liquor under moon and stars
lofty but not haughty, humble in their way,
precious though unimpelled to parade as much,
exemplars modeling the lost art of the refined,
that fine distinction between shine and flash.
Brandon Marlon is a writer from Ottawa, Canada. He received his B.A. in Drama & English from the University of Toronto and his M.A. in English from the University of Victoria. His poetry was awarded the Harry Hoyt Lacey Prize in Poetry (Fall 2015), and his writing has been published in 250+ publications in 28 countries. www.brandonmarlon.com.