it took me by surprise, a certain exhaustion with
freezing temperatures it cooled and made me
breath more heavily, but what reaping with the sickle
and the scythe moon, so tantalisingly low from
the heights of azure canvas noon,
now lowered into this frozen abyss;
at first i noticed the frost
and served up simile upon simile
if not metaphor in the vein of consent
to exclude any association with metaphor,
or as i might collectivise such dissection
of poetics: neither, cliché upon cliché,
the sparkling diamond sawdust,
the speckle of frozen tears,
hushed stardust of entered atmosphere...
but then i looked keenly at the frost,
on cement and on iron of car bonnets
and roofs... the stars not numerous enough
to be compared with,
and after much deliberation it dawned on me;
the frost appeared as if paparazzi epileptics,
or like a thousand photograph camera flashes
in a stadium of staged pop music...
along the linear tread of my feet the frost
change kaleidoscopic like that, like red carpet concentration
of the desired object for newspaper print CELEBRITY,
like a stadium where something memorable
must happen in order to ignite the need
for flash photography: yes, the frost appeared like that,
the frost appeared like that tonight,
and the stars were set free in revelatory constellations
where once the constellation πηγασος, where once
it too gleamed, brighter than all those mortal cares
concerned for a signifying dis-concern, shackling
mortal memory beyond one's own or one's grave;
this too the dynamism of the burial rites
where wormy indeed maggoty earth engulf the
patrons of this lower caste necrophilia without
cannibalism, indeed to be fed unto those of no sight,
but mere touch and scented paraphernalia burrowed
into where once dissection would make a surgeon's
ingredients listed for donation - but charity
in such morbid societies is at best old clothing
or worm-holed books from the best-seller list
where the author got rich, for almost trying,
when indeed trampling the forest of two dimensional
trees that inked pages are - like glass from sand?
pure awe consumes me sometimes;
as is this case of psychology, that animate things
are understood on the basis of inanimate things categorise
adding to a "complete" picture, as much as
the theorisation of an affirmative word, a simple aye
or yes will do, but why delve so deep as to express
a theorisation of the ego with a missing individuated deviation,
suddenly curbed to a theory, handy in the affirmation
of being dittoed out of all possible examples
it attests to say it's not part of a phenomenological collective,
in the affirmation of the need to know itself,
by being a noumenon that's forced into a flux of changes,
that it's not achilles' heel deep in water of some
phenomenon, like premature depression found
in adolescence of, this, perfect, western, society,
so willing to export a crafty denial of it's imperfection,
this western utopia export.