O to Be in the Company Of… [prose poem]
O TO BE IN THE COMPANY of those who raise the roof with need-to-be-free ascendancy, and thus would never in a million years be distant or aloof, and only ever have an interest in the truth, and show no signs of pathological dependency on people, idols, cities, gods or dress-codes, always take the high roads, don’t have any desiccated views, never do a take-you-out reprisal fratricidal hide-behind-a-phony-smile impugnment (for such chosen company will only ever want a be-with-you intunement), never any blind choleric madness moments turning into years of professional opponency where you cannot even see you’ve not only been stripped of your integrity but all you are for now is lines of snorted co-dependency.
O to be in the company of those who never try to buy your love (when they won’t even dare to love you in return) or never sell you for a measly dime or take away your shine or change the endings of your poems with expletives of their own, so your soul can never rhyme, or give you coals instead of gold, or leave your heart out in the cold where you will stay for longer than your gaslit mind can comprehend; for bent into the shape of someone else’s petulance, you’ll acquiesce to keep the simulated peace which merely functions as disguise for all their virulence.
O to be in the company of those who never bathe in sycophancy’s unctuously phantom lake (for cloyness is as far from them as Pluto is from Sun) and never run from earthquakes (for within them lies the metaphoric key to seismic sex-activity) and never wonder how much they can stand of anything which smells of love (for more’s the better in the case of anything which sighs down from above) and never would they skim the surface of a river’s flow (for they would rather dive in, snorkel-free, and deep as can be gone, they lose themselves in love-juice ecstasy).
O to be in the company of those who love to serve rather than be served themselves; who, knowing what it is to be alone (and thus know what it is to roam through deserts under stars), have not a single qualm about allowing you to make your home adjacent to their souls (like co-defendant avatars). Such beings look into each other’s eyes and utter, with regal and reginal (deep vaginal) sighs, “We were made for one another”. They do not need the other, for neither of such creatures has a clue where one begins and where the other ends! For they are both one and two and barely know the difference between the me and you. They coexist as twinlike souls who both can wander and return to one another’s light-filled shadows quicker than the cherubim can cry out “Symbiosis!”
O to be in the company of those who see your worth in terms of flowers in your soul rather than the role they’d have you play or how many dollars in your purse (and I don’t know which is worse) and I doubt they’d have the necessary eyes to see those flowers anyway. Where are the souls who love to watch the duskly sky, who (staring upwards) would then gladly lie with you in any old terrain and hold your hand without demands and trace the balanced wax and wane of Jupiter and Venus through the night and know that you were made for this and every kiss would be the first and every touch would be as passionate as if it was the last, and what you felt inside would be as vast as space is wide, for deep and wetsome kisses such as that will just continue whether flesh is dead or spirit is alive and so together you will thrive as one. You will not even have to strive at this for just that kiss in all its penetrating afterness would be fulfilling all that one could wish. And now back to my mountain I will go, for fantasy becomes an embryo and from the summit all the juices in the valley duly flow and arboretums grow, and I here in this soon-bespringtime glow enjoy the memorandum, solemn, as imperfect solitude within me says: “Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen”.
© Alan Morrison, 2021
The Naked Troubadour 