Choose your Side [poem]
In the beginning there was no beginning
for the beginning was a has-been blank page
blinding light-beamed stowaway
arrayed in random stardust
blowing on a wind of ceaseless change
without inception
outside human stuckintime conception
made of matter darkly hued
infinitely airbrushed out of sight
and view and mind or any other signs which
under normal circumstances anyone can find
so only those determined to apprise themselves
would reach inside the clues.
And so the treadmill unbegan
and round and round its cogs then spanly
wound themselves and out of one thing
came another and another like a paper tree
which children’s party magicmen produce
much to the glee of all the kids who,
crosslegged on the carpet, almost levitate
to see the evolution of this tree
augment itself in frivolry
…and so do I.
But some day in the line along the plot
X marks the spot where wakeup comes
and strangely followed closely by an
eerie unbelonging feeling in this field.
And while Houdini-wannabes go chasing bliss
(through tacky money-spinning techniques
learned from hackneyed hucksters of the soul)
declaring blisters on their feet to be a crime…
{the feet of which I speak are not the ones
with which we trudge the earth but those
which seekers of all truth run with when they
have realised that birth and death are not
beginnings and/or endings but parentheses
round wide-eyed growing pains of which
awareness only makes them even worse}
…the ones who leave such fashion trends behind
eat righteous agony for breakfast, lunch and tea,
and know that all advancement comes
with coiled up serpent stretching on the rack
for torture is administered to those who
question everything and leave no stone unturned
and for such ones there is no turning back
as patterns past are in the furnace burned.
It’s challenging to dedicate oneself to truth
imprisoned in a globe of lies
and self-delusion
pompousness
and ponerized
lobotomized
imaginary image of oneself
[I know that all the world’s a stage
but even actors sometimes have to rest]
and all the phony outrage
and offendedness
unblendedness
injustice cruel nonendedness
refusal to accept the test
whereby we cease to be the puppet
robots wanted by the rulers of the air
(or those who false declare themselves
to have the right to pull our ragged strings)
Into this life we bring the latency of genius
yet, drawn upon the chalkboard of the
school of artifice is mostly schemingness,
pretence, avoidanceness,
defence and unbelievingness
instead of finding out what’s real
[the only goal of spirit truly understood]
for peace is an illusionland unless we joust with dark
and ignorance is never bliss
but when sealed with a deadly kiss
it leaves the door of heart ajar
not for the angels of the stars
but for some other ones whose filth is so immense
but yet whose time is now
whose specialty is merciless pretence
whose power is permitted here to rise
until the time has come for every curse
to be undone and after which
the work of ages will be won
…so choose your side.
And in the end, there was no end
for endings are a blank page
(like beginnings too)
but made from holes in space
(if space can have such holes)
it masquerades as déjà vu.
And so, you see, in spite of all the misery
and butchery and bitchery, bewitchery
and errancy and irony and tragedy
and savagery and coverup gladragsedly
of treasons wrought galacticly
(the practical annihilation of all good
which never is extinguished, neither could it be!)
this letter is a cry of salty sigh
and wrestling rue and hearting hope
from latent me to lovely latent you.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
The Naked Troubadour 