The Suckless Tit of Nothingtown [poem]
Those wizened hands now reaching out
feel all around the empty air and in the
double-sanded glassy so-called “timer”
perched nearby on barkless branches
hooting like an owl (while in the glade
ten thousand grains of hopelessness
fall back & forth from one dumb bulb
to yet another) meatless cleavers slice
full through the nothingtown of crazed
sub-urbane habits — gloating like a pig
on heat! as empty atoms drenched in
self-deceit suffuse my bloodless veins
my seized-up weather-vanes imagined
little gains old blanched tearstains death
rattle foreordained my ragged clothes
in flames but never will I be ashamed
nor will my spirit’s sparks be tamed
despite the vacant places of no
matter where on earth I am
in space time history’s
flatulent and tepid
parallelogram
we see no
change
abide
no
fading
waning
draining
of the ebb
and flowful
crimson tide
this whimsified
and battered ride
of stark obliteration
petty little obfuscation
shading us from all the
juice and dream of truth
while everywhere pretenders
sit and charm us with their glib
and suave identikits of non-sense
(that is non-sense not another thing
called nonsense) & all truth & logic fall
like painted petals to the furrowed floor
mothers cling in clamlike ways to childly
shapes who suck their tits with desperate
lips while voices chant you’re every one
a stowaway to start your ride and then in
time you’re castaways who question why
no answers come nor ever will as fools
meet futile for the kill…ing fields in blood
and we all scramble in the dirt and mud
and hold that positively thinking turns
this stuff to pinkish fluff but… as for me
I’ve had enough of keeping schtum while
circus elephants abounding in the room
are casually ignored as celebrating fraud
becomes the well-loved order of the day.
© Alan Morrison, 2019
The Naked Troubadour 