Where I belong [poem]
like a fish out of water
my mouth becomes a gasping hoop
through which ideas
leaply excrement themselves
to silky foamful shores
and I, like many fools before,
have found my manhood lured
into a labyrinth of curdled prose
if cdb could see me now
how rattled he would be
that I
an auctioneer of poetry
a kidney of philosophy
and lucid tales [like him]
should be imprisoned
by the folly of my just deserts
if eggshells ever were beneath my feet
(that’s me being far too careful for my good)
[instead of wings]
then they are there no more.
I trample on the shardly dunghill
of my former easydreams
[feet made of wood]
and place a sheet over my face
like some cadaver
whose indeathly frozen features
cause offence to all (or should)
and as for all the worldling grockles
rubbernecking from the solace of their chair
and bed and comfortable garden shed
I deign to care not tuppence what you think
as every cell pretending that it’s me
is on the brink of anarchy
by which I mean that soon
my missives will declare that
ils ont tous se couchent
et pas juste seulement aujourd’hui
et pas seulement demain
mais toujours for eternity.
it’s time to end the foolness of inanity
or, as modi put it, time to end
this madness and, like Lazarus,
(eventually) going back to
vast unfettered galaxies
where I belong
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
The Naked Troubadour 