Cosmic Barbecue [poem]
So here he lies, washed up on farsome shores;
his ragged soul now grown in all its broken glory,
like a used & once-upon-a-time was-useful vessel
(dangling from a wizened mountain precipice
just by his fingertips alone, within his jaded story)
from another starfield light-year’s wayward world
which astronauted space seas’ crested foam,
manufactured from the sap of some galactic trees;
discovering he’d lost forever how to be at home,
destined from now on in hinterlands to roam.
As he roasted slowly on a cosmic barbecue,
an angel whispered innerly: “There is no afterlife
as we have understood or mindsome knew.
For when one is absorbed into the nothingness
(or all the somethingness that’s glued in there),
then everything that is (or not) is all one is
(and even that is well beyond the village fair
we call with euphemistic crudity: “our home”).
Dear you, who’s reading hereful with a frown
these muted words I cannot say are mine
(for what on earth do people have to hold
that they have not received from long of old),
I knew you from before you knew you’d pass
this way. We, allofus, are known to one another,
for we are flotsam-jetsam matter-demonstrations
bubbling up from where I’m not allowed to say
and that’s precisely why the darkness has a
strategy to cut, divide & splinter human beings
into different sides, to keep us all in ignorance
from understanding how this waking dream
(in which we clownly cultivate our separateness
in order to invent a narrative which plays into
our desperateness to save our fallen flesh)
fits nobly with a grin into the wider scheme.
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© Alan Morrison, 2017
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The Naked Troubadour 