6½ [poem]

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6.5

Ageing’s on my mind.
Not obsessively or upsettingly;
just inquisitively, curiously
wonderfully musing where
the fresh of limberness
dissolves ungracely.
Even curvy filmstar dolls become
a living morgue of waxwork
nips and tucks and tricks and botox
underfucks — an agely horror story
(who needs gory zombie flicks?).

My mind must take the opposite path
to that which my decaying body takes.
As matter shrivels, wrinkles, dries up,
mind embraces shiny youthness,
pursues eternal usefulness,
expands beyond all boundaries,
revels in essential perfumed oils
dripping with the metaphoric spoils
of non-existent wars; for ideal youth
will seek no fight or retribution,
has no baggage on a battlefield
made of swathes of former life.

Refusing to be badgered by the chimes
of clocks enslaved by rigid or relentless
march-in-time to something else’s
clicking heels, 1-2-1-2 spinning wheels;
unknowing how the crazy beatless heart
of rhythmic stillness feels —
unaged man or woman climbs the
nearest summit, camping there for life.

The thing which keeps us young
in heart and stuff (apart from
all avoidances of self-abusing substances
[although that in itself can almost be enough])
is being what oneself is meant to be —
not merely knowing how to utter “free”
but truly being so, plus no infatuation
with the hugely tiny particle called me.

[I’ve known some girls of twenty-five
who — in a contest of maturity —
would win hands down compared to
many forty-something fledgling
menopausal self-fixated babyminded
lostinluggage carriers of whine].

Whatever happens to the flesh
I solemn promise here I will
ensure naïveté and innocence
(not synonyms for ignorance)
with healthy fertile dissidence
alongside sprinkled essence
of
do anything for you
campaign for what is true
refuse the colour blue
dance to improve the view
disdain to misconstrue
resolve to see right though
all things and every human too
becomes my sprightly soul
at six point five times ten
times three-six-five (or six).

As long as I’m alive I’ll live with
lightning touch and nothing ever
is too much and little’s just a
common name and not a value
plus I’ll not seek fame or fortune
(for to those my eyes are blind)
although they say that’s what all youths
should set out on the road to find
with spotted handkerchief so carefully
knotted on an overshoulder pole
and almost everybody seems to play a role
including those who think that they are old
bending double
causing everyone around them trouble
floundering in all the rubble of their days
repeat themselves and fumbledither in a daze
and stars no longer for them are a joy
eschewing crazy ways they geriatrically
fade from view
and from their own selves too.

And so before the world and angels I aver
this candle will burn fiercely to the end:
All notions of defeat
or droopsome bittersweet decline
it will transcend.

.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2014

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