> A thing of beauty

A thing of beauty

Par |2018-08-20T04:50:53+00:00 7 juillet 2013|Catégories : Blog|

 

Fresh images are dif­fi­cult
If not impos­sible to create when
One is lying on their backs not
Really asleep but actual­ly
Truly uncons­cious,
Impenetrable to the mys­te­ries of the
Silent bed­bugs and
Impervious to the house dust mites
That plu­ral­ly occu­py
A gloa­ting posi­tion inside our hai­ry
Nostrils and alveo­la­ted air pas­sages.
Scientifically spea­king,
It is quite a stub­born pro­blem
Trying to feel this uncons­cious­ness
As a form of heed­less­ness or as
Mere inat­ten­tion
When in truth
One is being conti­nual­ly and
Mercilessly pes­te­red by all too fami­liar
Footsteps on crêpe soles or just on
Thick house socks,
All too fami­liar indeed
With all these ques­tions if not ques­tio­nings
On the date of post­ing or the date of owing
Some lit­tle pocket money to the
Occasional errand-boy and the
Expected deli­ve­ry-boy and our boy going
To the nur­se­ry, a pro­per nur­se­ry-school
Of small affor­dable bills and
Ill-pri­ced com­pas­sion
Paired with admi­ra­tion as our
First-born is para­ded during the fes­ti­vi­ties
In the form of a good she­pherd of
The Lord,
A good she­pherd bea­ring his stick in
The lands of Giliad, like
A strange, an eerie adver­ti­se­ment
To tickle our reli­gio­si­ties and the
Unction, the extreme unc­tion that
We bear with sove­rei­gn pride,
As we die to wash up
After a long hot sum­mer day’s work
At this slash of a job –
Nothing to place in the shop-win­dow
Where my job should be,
Nothing to have and to be had
As a pro­per occu­pa­tion for a
Family man,
So per­haps then
I am no fami­ly in a man,
I am only a man in a fami­ly,
Whereupon I could as well have
Only been the boy, the first-born boy
Of the fami­ly where unjus­ti­fia­bly
If not enti­re­ly pro­ver­bial­ly
I always tend to iden­ti­fy with the
Father,
Like some car­too­ny Duke-like figure
Sitting on top of the world on top of
His horse
And com­man­ding lone­ly views of the
Mean val­ley,
The mean val­ley of conur­bal bliss
And cor­res­pon­ding repo­si­tio­nings and
Hustlings for the best seat in the
Stands, the best ticket,
It’s always a fami­ly outing that
Seems to jus­ti­fy the whole damn
Nuisance,
Under the floo­dlights with our
Popcorn and our ice-lol­ly,
What a spin and then
What a hash we have made of
Our bio­lo­gi­cal roles
Always stri­ving for cost-effec­tive
Solutions to pre­da­ted self-addres­sed
And casual­ly inflic­ted wounds,
I drink my straw­ber­ry ice
And it drips
From my lips
And I rhyme the bloo­dy stain
On my fre­sh­ly-pres­sed shirt
With the hours I’ve been spen­ding
On the train
And with the dirt that seems to
Irk my throat,
Destined to sing and now gra­vel­ly
Destined to clear the conso­nants and now
Fatally hove­ring over the same nee­dy
Vowels,
Through the ines­ca­pable gram­ma­to­lo­gy
Of the right rea­sons for wan­ting
To be lite­rate,
Wanting this – this super­la­tive
Literariness, toge­ther with the coun­ting
Skills,
Wanting it bad­ly for the kids,
We grew to need it
And they should never feel the need
Only the satis­fac­tion of sub­trac­tion
And espe­cial­ly mul­ti­pli­ca­tion –
Go forth and mul­ti­ply
Is an almost unbea­rable pro­po­si­tion,
So rea­lis­tic it can not pos­si­bly
Have any­thing to do with reli­gion
Yet it serves to remind one
How impor­tant the one-liners and
The ove­rall lan­guage skills are
To a good career in the forces
That be,
Pimp or pim­per­nel in this
Affordable revo­lu­tion of the
Glistening and the
Sleeveless and the recrea­tio­nal,
This revo­lu­tion in kind
Like a sort of unin­ten­tio­nal
Dialectics,
A fuz­zy walk through the same
Streets,
But always with punc­tua­li­ty,
It’s a sort of German dia­lec­tics of
Ideas that never fail to
Materialize in a fast-track invest­ment
Opportunity in fan­cy­car­dom, –
How’s that for being lite­rate and
Numerate and gene­ral­ly
Numismatic and vain,
As in all the pain that goes with
Raising the stan­dard for the
Next gene­ra­tion of urges,
Unconscionable urges at that,
Mighty with the sword they bear
And haugh­ty with their novel acu­men
As they always try to go back
They are
Always wont to go back
And recreate the
Moment of their imma­cu­late
Concoction
Amid a pair of mar­gue­ri­tas
And on a flo­wer-bed of
Roses.
What a pro­mise,
O what a soft pro­mise of
Happiness.

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