Vagrant on the Hinterland of Time [poem]

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I am a vagrant on the hinterland of time
a whirlpool wanderer
washed by unsolved crimes —
a fugitive, footloose, fancy-free,
who knows not where he’ll come to be.

Vagabond vagaries invade
what oncely was my private hell
while all the while,
imprisoned in the straggling cell
of nothing’slikeitusedtobe,
unsettled waves of
stroboscopic straycat blues
unremittingly splash my desert boots
challenge my mordant roots
treat me like a prostitute
leave without an interview
bring me into disrepute
(in spite of which my knighthood grew).

I am my own bohemian grove
crowing from the sidelines
in perfect pitch,
a voice in search of angel choirs
hearts on fire (larks for hire)
rising on the thermal flows
of rugged cliffside undertows
and every word of mine’s a missile
of the certain heatseek kind
and every quatrain that I type
dissolves in clouds of darker hue
where ripeforjudgement portents
flash like uberlightning strikes
and vie for precedence —
fight each other fiercely for the view.

I am the troubadour I dreamed to be
the floodplains drifter
ceaseless shifter
reinventing metamorphing
drowningly submerging
courting countless themings
into cool idealistic streams
unthoughtof schemes
where I can roguely roam —
a rover of the globe
an unrepentant nothingphobe
a cellfone flybynight
and home is just a twig
where I can hang my hat
while howling like an alley cat
and on the wall
I’m ducks in flight.

I am the knight who no one understands
(Don Kihotay seemalike to eyeless ones)
although Sir Dancealot
is who I nudely be
to those who wholly want to see.
But cobweb strands from ancient pains
have blinded eyes
with attitude of icy-blue
as passion’s welcome
drains away through spinal-taps
concealed in the backs they turn
to face the world —
a sight which at-one-time
had made me want to
curl up in a ball and sigh
(and other words which rhyme
like cry and die and passmeby).

I am a knowing nothing wannafly
whose wings are ragged
wrapped in countersighs
and overwhelmed by deepful seas
of dark imprudent lies
which barf from every
tunnel-coloured tyrant’s mushy jowls.

I am a two-way mirrored wave
of hopingful despair.
With you I’d share
the last crumb of my loaf
yet most have made the choice
instead to eat the dirt
of yet unformed regret
and I regret now to inform you
that my waters broke
the foetus choked
on umbileyecal cordsome
strangulation croaked
(or so that darkly doctor said)
thus leaving me bereft —
a keening crown
of ungemmed latency.

I am a stone of rolling roundness
lost unfoundness
tramping over cosmic wastes
a waning waif
eschewing all things safe and sound
a cleanshirt urchin (ironed too)
yet graced from source with virtue’s code
a tribeless nomad
king of unmapped roads
a fearfree traveller
untranced tourist never taken in
by all the sights designed
to whet the appetites of
rubbernecking pseudo-journeypeople
sooning on the train.

I am a woodenleggéd forester
unbroken by the tree-trunk load
now stuck in treacle-savoured time;
and into you I boldly strode
from deep inside the comfort zone
of couplet-centred rhyme.

I am at last devoid of junk
which drags one down;
so now I’m free to clown myself
uncloned by nature’s wantonness
though still assailed by dark
unbutterfingered blindful
mindless nabobs on a mission
to delete their chiefsome
cause of death: the fart of joy.

I am a vagrant on the hinterland of time
with walking-boots of weathered dreams
I wander through the naked heights
of once-were-forest ways sublime —
the only path I now esteem.

I light a candle for the Sun.
Homeless, I’m without a map;
for home is just another trap.
Itinerant, I am all undone;
yet most of all, I beg from none —
for, after all’s been said and flung,
I’m just a passing thunderclap.

 

© Copyright, Alan Morrison, 2017

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