Incy Wincy [poem]
I saw a little spider
walking in the snow
All dressed up to kill
with nowhere left to go
I think I understand him
for I am just the same
going through the motions
our lives a stilted game
I cry out to the branches
and marvel at their bough
a mass of solid rootness
I envy it somehow
I never asked to be here
with rudeness I was hurled
headfirst into the vortex
a lonely broken world
[prismlike patterns take their toll
on a windowless monument
rolling down the pain of a vision
in a dreamly dense forested frown
I tossed in the sky like a billowing
white comely crown of potentially
golden angels whose name was
whispered with incense and myrrh]
I tried to find diversion
anaesthetise the pain
colour in the greyness
hush the hurricane
but after every sidetrack
I bumped down to the earth
a messy little business
a bloody afterbirth
people on the outside
watching my demise
laugh behind their fingers
a chance to sermonise
they lecture at their children
and warn them to be good
clip their wings with relish
(they’d kill them if they could)
[restless indigent papertrails will
mark out their territory’s winding lanes
with vast resplendent daisy chains
borrowed from outside mundane time
like clocksgonewrong while thinking
they can chime and all the while
remarkably very little happens which
hasn’t been programmed that way]
meanwhile back in Jonestown
(the name I give this place)
the hoods are hypnotising
the stupid human race
there’s really not much to it
they make an easy prey
place their heads upon the block
(they never disobey)
I’ve given up on finding
a place to lay my head
each time I close my eyes
I find a scorpion in the bed
everything declining
(so says the Second Law)
stuff decaying everywhere
descending into war
[happiness is a warmed-up desperate
dream of drunken dissolution’s dimly
lit passageways suffused with tempered
tidalwaves unsold in every marketplace
where robots scuff the ground with indecent
joy and Shakespeare shaves his beard and
and makes a ploy to take your mind into
his occult-laden weblike world of wasdom]
I’ve searched the thirteen seas
(which includes the ones inside)
vomited in all of them
it was just a bumpy ride
now I’m looking for an ocean
without a safety ring
the stormier the better
with no more apron strings
so now let’s bring a halt
to this childish little rhyme
I’d love to tell you more
but I’m running out of time
not that you’d believe me
for now you think you know
while wincing deep inside me
is the spider in the snow
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 