Other Poems by:

Scott Malby

Prelude to a fugue

A prelude to a fugue than 

for no poet of lyrics

can disarm the sublime

or dangle the carrot

of an all seeing eye

fathoming the inexplicable

as it ignites like a rapture 

or overthrow as in movement 

between now and the next.

Unlucky philosopher

born musical and visual 

in a country of stubbornness

wanting to be-

to be a poet of salt, 

reaching out and finding 

the sea liberating

all things temporary,

rupturing into a mountain 

of graveyards,

abstract- yes, but palpable. 

Before point of arrival

mistaking is easy

as imagination fills 

with latent reflections

as if layers of meaning 

represent a summoning

to what is not meant

foraging tipsy as dissonant

into this prelude to a fugue,

independent but similar to

with no clear distinction 

between parts.



Mary, mother of Jesus

What would you know?

I choked on a piece of bad gospel 

and when I woke, 

my name was covered in mud.

We laughed together. Drank some wine.

He asked me for a favor.

I said yes. He knew

where he was going

and took to his destiny

like a bird to the sky. 

What's all this about?

Every contradiction is a paradox

when your life is a thought crime.


The truth is derivative.

The lady of the bleeding heart is dead.

She leapt to her death romantically

variable feet first

off the bridge of  postmodernism, 

glued to a collage of empty beer cans



At the poet's market 

the stalls were filled with feet.

It was April, the poetry month

and the vendors were donating 

their proceeds to the Academy.

Simile winked at Sestina. 

When he touched her stanzas 

repeatedly, she blushed

out of meter and adjusted her syntax

but not before taking his money.

Numerous poets caught, clapped.

Copywrite 2006 Scott Malby
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