Bathos meets the Golden Bough [poem]

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When strange cosined estrangement
makes its strangled mark around
my desert journey’s restless crazed abode,
I’m forced to pay the price the piper plays
when gigging for some vassal lord
who loves not music with his heart
but only has the need for what he deems
will fit the bill (that’s quite apart from all
the times I swallowed hard the sugared pill
they made me take [which even common sense
would show was merely fake
{placebo is the truesome game}]).

Balanced on the golden bough
(though perching there is disallowed)
I know that I must now consign
my void and guttered dreams to
history’s dustbin’s thin and staggered vault
while chasing some insteadness with my
hugely filtered gaunt sequestered
(though extremely dead and keening
faultlined sunshined [never festered])
guillotining breastmilk-weaning diligence.

Dead’s a good thing, by the way —
if “dead” you understand aright —
no matter what the grockles
(those who’ve made their home
upon this broken earth and put
their knees beneath its tabletop)
may on this hallowed subject say.

There’s no point more in reasoning
with paupers who enrich their souls with
Styrofoam, then call this earth their home
with smugfaced confidence —
use jello as a supplement for emptiness
(or should I say supposit’ry incontinence)
then pay their rent with qualities
they never had nor ever will.

So now I’ve had my fill of thespians
who’ve built their bit-parts bit-by-bit
but think that’s who they really are;
yet when I look I see a ham who takes
the stage for home instead of roaming
troubadourly over plains and planes
(dimensions’ weirdly stains across
the cosmos, nebulae and wormly holes) —
if only we could meet again but under
different circumstances like romance
or serendipity (no misandry) & innocence
with everything secure not happenstance.

My bleedingness erases raw desire
for, passing out through hyperspace,
I see the folly of the pseudo-race
now known as human but of which
one day there will not even be one
single trace and all the stupid dreams,
ambitions, deep desires, conversations,
funeral pyres, and foolish buyers which
we overmade in hope, then styled them
as religions, visions, grand designs
and all the phoney borderlines we drew
and all the other nonsense which we grew
(as our experiment in self-aggrandisement)
will be as heaps of hologrammic images
which angel types can regularly view
to see what fallen really means
or how there’s merely just a few whose
lines come from their heart (white art);
while somewhere in the desperate
darksome distance muffled screams
will slowly and unholy move their
wasted muscles until nothing
evermore is heard on earth
except one hideous frightful word
which every fleshly grouping
in their deeply creeply inner temple
knows but which until that moment
had not ever flowed across the mortal
cosmic [sic] collective historyyarns of
futile unmourned metamorphic madness
we call life.

Against such power we can never take up arms
or use our earthly charms for we are merely
grains of dirtful sand, enstranded outlaws on the
shores of bland infinity — that lastly outpost mostly
unlit signpost storm-in-a-teacup coastal nightmare
(leave me out there) much ado about nothingness
and going nowhere.


© Alan Morrison, 2014

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