The Broken Umbrellas Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

They die in the gutters
the broken umbrellas
unsung in traffic hiss
slack-winged,
and broken backed,
spattered with the piss
of late night nutters

no candlelit requiem
for these sad pteranodons
what does for them
is a delinquent wind
under bullying clouds
testing and tiresome
tugging for easy surrender
they die in the gutters
the broken umbrellas

A tangle of spokes
on the glittering street
without ceremony, the
careless sword thrust into
overflowing trash,
casual as an alley murder
next to passing feet,
they die in the gutters
the broken umbrellas

In a last act before they die
(Look, at last-
a blue hole in the sky!)
Where before with
taut black wing
we shielded you from
drumming locust rain
and for our pain, discarded
our geometry no longer fit
for tidy office boys, left
limp by gurgling drain
we die in the gutter
in a world full of noise
We, the broken umbrellas

Will rise up again
avenge this ignoble fate
the common man
we must learn to hate
we shall choose privilege
and royalty, stay behind
in limousines
and keep the crooked
civil servant dry
in ministerial corridors
we will decipher where
deep echoes hollow
out caves to follow
lisping conversations
and near hatstands
louchly propped
reap careless
and discarded sounds
know what goes on
above and below
give away secrets
to foreign powers,
only shelter
the city slick
the actress and
filthy rich boy
who rings her bell
help Lucifer
to stay dry in Hell
smoothly open with a click
keep from sun and rain
the tyrant and dictator
drug lord, torturer
and humble street corner hood
all these will feel
our cool thin winged embrace
the only way
to get understood
we are going to get even
make sure no one
gets to heaven
that the sickly child
stays unwell.
We, the broken umbrellas
will see you all in hell
the broken umbrellas
We are the broken umbrellas