The Panoply of Time [poem]
A little speck of cosmic curiosity
buzzed wilfully across a page of tyme.
First one and then another leaf
was flipped with serial intrigue
against the passing clues and signs
secluded ersatz finish-lines
I gruelly pitted all my wits
but yet no matter how much warmth
I used and strength enthused
it froze and hung in rime (or is it rhyme?)
For curiosity can never chase a moment
and although it killed the cat
it sure as hell will not kill me
(despite the fact enmeshed I am
with gravity and all of that)
There’s no adventure in the blob
we funnily have labelled as the past
Then is just a jaded joke
almost as much as when
For the glug we call the future
is an all-elusive acro-gymnast
jumping out of sight into the
rear-view mirror’s neutered prick
for what has gone before is impotent
a useless has-been now-is-never dick
Having thus surveyed with mirth
the panoply of tyme — concluding
that it has no merit end or worth
(although the thing itself is most sublime)
I jumped with my umbrella
opened shut from off the balcony
where neutrons sometimes strut
and splintered in more fragments
than the speed of light could ever be
There’s something you should know
you see
that little speck of curiosity
is
me
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
The Naked Troubadour 