They say not everything can be expressed with words.
Myself I don’t believe that to be so.
For if it has existence theoretically then
passion’s thrust can fire an arrow from my bow.
Please tell me what you think is inexpressible
and I will form the letters with my pen;
for though you make a huge divide between
my ectoplasmic strings of wordly thrills
(which you confuse with rationality)
and what you deem to be
‘beyond the spheres ethereality’
in truth they are as one. For every word
which drips down from my untamed tongue
has formed itself in distant lands unknown
upon this earth (which I don’t even know myself
though I know so well their shy unhidden worth).
Maybe you’ll say (as one example given of the many)
that one cannot truly speak the feelings of
the fulsome moon on view the other day
(the one which blew my sunly mind away).
To this I will reply: The moon is wanely
wan and wondermuch in some lown lunar way.
Its face I sense is calling me with names
which (you might have said ineffably but I’d have
said inevitably) represent some form of deity
which unanticipatedly becomes a coloured point of
view (the moon I saw had turned a peacock blue).
And so I always leave no letter-stone unturned
(my bare hands flip them over one by one)
for wending down that lonely moanly journey road
with fingers worn down to the bone
and every square inch of my paws
made raw and groanly burned I will embrace
the [w]hol[l]y vast of everything which tender twists
with every latent spark of ardour lurking in
my busy fists of mind until the broken moment
when I die and fast transmogrify to o/ether realms
of weaverbirds’ verbose (goodbye) which nest and fly
and lostly moorsome cry in moving parallel words.
© 2012, Alan Morrison