what i learned today:
a. when people treat you cruelly,
turn all your compassion
that's left in you
on beings that are more likely
to understand it,
those beings we degraded
our language on by citing
their tongues of onomatopoeia;
animals.
it will make you better off,
not having a care for giving
compassion unto fellow man,
apathy, the sweet porcelain
dome where children shelter under
and provide the only basis
for a like-for-like exercise of compassion.
b. re-felting the roof of the shed with my father,
today, in the crisp saturday day,
making cinnamon coffee,
watching the imaginary leash on my cat
the ginger punk maine **** quarus
keeping an eye on us on the shed roof
will ignite more in me
than these charcoal mathematically rigid
imprints on the colour of surrender.
oh i've surrendered, all the spare time imaginable
on an activity that wants people
to bleed, but who can only offer
ideals and easily falsifiable wants,
who would march in a battlefield backwards.
c. in the english-speaking world, only two strands
of books exist to a respectable popularity,
fiction and autobiography, technically fiction & fiction,
since all autobiographies do is write a fiction
for us caught in the present: what life was like,
what life isn't like back then now, what life
will never be for us to rekindle it to a suitable
reminiscence in the future - never a non-fictional
account of what life is like now, always
a non-fictional account of what life was like
back then.
d. back when poetry was sung in the queen's parlour,
or when she bathed in milk,
but not when it was missing she took
to the harrowing beast, the queen bathory
and bargained against bathing in milk instead in
****** blood, when poetry was used as a welcome
distraction for those with much ado about nothing
of the leisurely time of crowned spare time,
when poetry was not supposed to entertain a crowd
but high eminence it mattered,
for indeed the philosophical critique is adequate,
sooner a playwright entertain a crowd
with weird constrictions on only male-actors
in tutus and corsets and wigs that a single
voice, with no actors but shadowy personae in one
body will entertain a crowd...
but odd that because poetry lost favour in places
of high eminence of crowned leisurely time
deserving poetic narrative spoken than sung
with the lyre to accompany, when this happened
the crowd eminence joined the mob, reduced itself
to full attire and prune gesticulations of tightened
cheek for show of noble pride, among the rabble,
it chose the public slaughter of art for the eyes
to be gauged in the notably sized crowd
rather than the luxury of a personal space,
naked, bathed, as the art of poetry is, naked,
even in terms of paragraphed punctuation,
nakedness of the technique... to have replaced it
by fully in corset and jewelled among the rabble,
watching the weird and wonderful restrictions
that gave us transvestites... indeed... what eminence,
amongst the mob.