Thursday, April 7, 2011

Dry Vine

The confines of a dry vine,
to view the world as a dying kind
while revelling in sacrifices that are
so blind to the mind's eye.

Not a call to arms,
just a reminder: you do have two,
and a mind that melts like hot glue
when that big hand squeezes that big trigger
and ejaculates slowly into your head,
so you feel cosy and neat on the inside
and fall asleep in absent euphoria;
in a dream until (if ever) you wake up...

Is there a reason that I cannot help
- despite my best efforts to switch to 'optimistic mode' -
but see, all around me, as if in glee,
people who could have been (so much) more?
Scrap the tags: the years, the months,
the milliseconds, career-driven monks ;
something is so surely amiss.
I swear; could it be; surely it is:
a vast, vast, gross, gross
automatons shuffling around and about the place,
believing with such vehemence
that they're O-so free!
and O-so not in need of a sharp tool,
(used only by fools)
to cut away that great, beastly portion
of "fucked-by-the-great-game"
(a joke, of course, but you know it by some such name)

'Don't tell me, no, don't ever tell me, that I am not free;
who are you to see, with your eyes so squeaky-clean?
Fuck you, little boy; there is a consensus here,
and who are you to wash my shoes?'
Like an over-battered fish,
but still squirming around on the inside;
a great body of water gurgling
at the back of many a mind.

Taken aback by such contempt, such marvellous pre-emption,
the hippies, queers and other circus clowns
fold back up into that square;
the smallest one, before you can simply fold no more...


© 2011