Neverending [poem]
In the beginning there was no beginning
for 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 eyes will find]
so only those determined to apprise themselves
would reach the clues (for only clues are ever found).
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 little tree
augment itself in frivolry
and so do I.
But some day in the fading line along the plot
an X will mark the spot where wakeup comes
and strangely followed hyperclosely by an
eerie unbelonging feeling in this fickle 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.
It’s challenging to dedicate oneself to truth
imprisoned in a grieving globe of lies
and self-delusion
pompousness
and ponerised
lobotomised
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 those puerile puppets
wanted by the reckless rulers of the air
[or those who false declare themselves
to have the right to pull our strings and
other powers over us we give them there].
Into this life we bring the latency of genius
yet, drawn upon the chalkboard of the
school of artifice is mostly schemingness
pretence, avoidanceness instead of
teasing out the real (that’s the only goal
of spirit, truly understood) for peace is
an illusionland unless we joust with dark
and ignorance is never bliss but sealed into
a deadly kiss it leaves the door of heart
ajar not for the angels from the stars but for
some other ones whose dirt is so immense
but yet whose time is n o w
whose specialty is merciless pretence
whose power is permitted here to rise
until all curses are 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 cavities
to fall both down and up into.
And so, you see, in spite of all the misery
and bitchery, bewitchery and errancy
and irony and tragedy 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 rugged rue
and hearting hope from latent me to lovely you.
© Alan Morrison, 2016
The Naked Troubadour 