I’m always ever willing
to be judged a fool
for being vulnerable
for showing courage
seeing life as “school”
imbued with passion
sprouting deep salvific schemes
exuding love from every pore
giving much (then giving more)
and all for free (a natural law)
living alone and watching birds
walking on untrodden earth
(even where there is a dearth
of angels on the way)
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
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).
The more my years have multiplied,
the more I’ve come to realise
that even more important
than mere love
For love is soon misunderstood
misused abused and trampled on
and has as many meanings as
its theatre actors choose to give,
who live by their escapist dreams,
believing pheromones, it seems,
and so much wanting to be loved
that they will heed whatever words
some cad will whisper in their ear
(for almost everything is ruled
by fear of death, abandonment —
which are the warp and woof of
all that stands between ourselves
and evidence of love through grace).
Romance is dead. Therefore, long live true love!
When all worth saying has been said, I raise
my hat and bow my head, remove the glove
which romance uses well to mask love’s blaze.
Romance, I now pronounce you dead and gone.
You once amused me with your froth and dreams
when I was young and hung my hat upon
a plethora of June-Moon-Spoonly schemes.
Live dangerously! and grasp that nettle
by the leaves — the rose by its spiky thorns
(ignoring the allure of each petal) —
then grab the bullock by its gory horns.
Be sure you never quickly turn away
when darkness rears its ugly little head.
Walk naked straight into the maelstrom fray
regardless if it leaves you there for dead.
There is a price to be paid for perfectionism’s
purple pros(e)aically prejudiced plume
which we can grownly assume is roughly equal to:
ª The harsh disapproval directed one’s way
[for high expectations will always dismay
as low self-esteem and a lack of resolve
result in resentment, so none get involved!].
ª The aloneness one has (dressed in freedom’s disguise)
[for almost the whole world will run for their lives
when they hear of the earnest desire to preserve
one’s nature unswervingly: “He’s got a nerve!”]
Here this man now sits and stands and paces
round the room while twin-scented swirling
strands make fiery dangling traces round the
edges of his tiny ever-[never]-reaching hands
The strands of which I speak are two and golden
flamed and tainted handsomely and guaranteed
to thrill and ultimately fill the yearning burn of
glistening dreams (undoing over-tightened seams)