> Crusade

Crusade

Par | 2018-05-22T19:55:54+00:00 7 juillet 2013|Catégories : Blog|

 

to Paul Muldoon,
  in the know­ledge that
  its time has come.

Only it
In itself
Has rai­sed the pro­blem
So that
Wittingly
Its full bra­vu­ra
Can be dischar­ged
Like a
Volcanic
Ejaculation
In the face of
The hum­drum and
The pan­jan­drum.
It is so very tou­ching
As it touches itself,
Willowy fin­gers
Wisping through all the
Articulations and
The twis­ted nerve-endings
So that
En fin
Pleasure
Sacred plea­sure
May be had,
Amidst all the innuen­do
And the insi­nua­tion,
The tor­tuous
Path of the sinewy
And the mus­cu­lar
Marching trium­phal­ly
To its own very valid col­lu­sion.
And o
The sinews become tense
And reflec­tive,
They tremble with the fatigue of
Potent contrac­tion,
Constructing the pur­po­se­ful and
The jer­ky
Out of the pure,
Erecting the fan­ci­ful and
The cocky
Out of the beni­gn,
In one delight­ful spasm
Of love most car­nal,
Love for one­self,
As you ride and
As you thrust for­ward
Your tongue into
Collectiveness,
Licking gree­di­ly the
Sweat-drops and the fetid
Secretions of
A thou­sand minds at work
Under the sun,
Licking gree­di­ly and
Speaking up,
Lustily sub­trac­ting from
From so much mater
The means to jus­ti­fy one self.
And yet it does not mat­ter
And yet it does,
As you vacillate bet­ween
Your dawn and dusk,
This is no field-day in the
Mighty sun,
This is a pen­du­lum
Of hit and run,
No mid of day or sum­mer
To enfold the senses
But has­ty cali­bra­tion of
Myopic lenses,
Like the clo­cking of a
Paradise to a mil­li­se­cond,
Back and forth
Amassing in your palm
The grease to keep your
Grinder going.
And yet this pal­ming off
Must be a grind,
As you insist on pal­ming beau­ty
And beha­ving like a jack.
And yet beware
How you overs­pend your vital juices
Beware
How you over­play your hand in
These here affairs
Of the tongue
For it is cer­tain that
Your end is not in
Palmistry,
You are no mean
Juggler
Or uncom­mon fool,
You are sup­po­sed
Instead
To cry
With the les­ser part of elo­quence
And the grea­ter part of joy
Joy in the gift recei­ved
And ren­de­red whole,
A cure as who­le­some
As an affir­ma­tion
Of that
Most high
Romantic
Wizardry,
That most arcane
Complexity of the
Mundane,
So do not ever yet
Try to escape,
Do not attempt the
Grand elo­pe­ment or
The theft
Of all that is sup­po­sed
To stay
And conspire,
Breathing its lus­ty life
Into your strange
Concoctions,
Conditioning your arti­fi­cial
Feet to the
Delicacy of the natu­ral,
The soles bare­ly tou­ching
Their foot
Prints
And all this tou­ching
And this sole­cism
Allowed
In that it makes your
Walking true
And memo­rable.
There’s no back-tra­cking
From this strand
Unless
In utter
Thoughtlessness,
As your heart refuses to qui­cken
And the pot­sherds
Contained in the flot­sam
Are unable
To recol­lect them­selves
Into any ves­sel of
Immediate use,
And in short
You are afraid,
Cast-away fear­some crea­ture
Most afraid of
Being fea­red
You,
With your lays
And play­ful ways,
Feared and thus
Assigned
To higher duty,
Unable to shake off
This res­ponse-abi­li­ty
Most
Epic, –
At that
Unmeditated lan­ding
Do not hesi­tate
But walk away
Instead
Most subt­ly
And most tru­ly
Into the jungle,
Mapping the inhos­pi­table ter­rain
And never cea­sing to ima­gine
Ways of
Transport,
Industrious means
And exor­bi­tant inven­tions
To take you
Deeper and dee­per into the
Main,
Never afraid
And always fea­red,
Affable fabri­ca­tor
Of the fabu­lous,
Humane
Yet migh­ty
O in the grasp
Of your
Sweaty palms,
As you unearth and
Scurry
And make inroads
Into the set-aside or
Diss-
Solution of
Your
Self,
O reso­lute
O silly
Palmer
To most
Holy
Lands.
 

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