where space and space become mandible,
where flex is not distinguishable from flux,
where, precisely, on a treasure island
of contentment i could have planned my
daydream trip solo to India, and set off by
myself aged 21, but i didn't - and perhaps
i have a regret or two not having seen
the tsunami of colours, brighter than
fireworks, in whatever gloom we represent
grey, to be cremated and turn into the colour
of cinnamon, or chilli, or turmeric,
if only we could turn to such colourful powdering,
one song, a mosaic of feeing: Moby's porcelain
spurred me, but indeed, the trip was abandoned,
India was replaced with Hades, the internal
adventure, with my ego theories extinct,
no couches, represented as a walking stick,
a prayer mat, a support of some sort, and before
me the mountains, canyons, rivers and seas
of thought - nothing more.
aeons have passed since my hope to travel
the oceanic and oriental traverses -
but in my ivory tower, like old Merlin trapped
on the drip of knowledge, i read a ted hughes
poem glimpse: /
'o leaves', crow sang, trembling, 'o leaves -'
the touch of a leaf's edge at his throat
guillotined further comment.
                                                        ­nevertheless
speechless he continued to stare at the leaves
through the god's head instantly substituted. /
commiserations having left a sense of
achievement from a novel - but the feelings
are not mutual - a love for a god or a love
for a novel is quiet alike - cold narcissism of one,
instant devotion for the other -
poetry like breadcrumbs, sometimes, all the time,
it's not a loaf of bread, the poem isn't,
to have a taste for poetry doesn't necessarily
mean a capitalistic sport, competitive and blood
thirsty, it's a chance, a stealthy endeavour -
in whatever profession, forever defining our art -
i'm sure many chemists could say:
reduced us to skin-care and suntan lotion,
perfumes and bleach? imagine the geneticist
working on the d.n.a. of down syndrome people,
i mean: those people hardly age!
what's your secret Freddy? come on, tell us,
you're 50 and yet your orangutan expression
is hiding Dorian Grey for ****'s sake - yet you're
pristine like a snowflake!
apart from that, what i really wanted to say,
what philosophers and quasi disciples of regurgitation
speak of: to stand outside all of space and time -
well, hell, i'll give it a go!
the great mountain range that was once Sahara,
the great mountain range that was once Gobi,
a day will come when the Himalayas will turn
into a desert, a grand desert by the name of Himala,
jasmine scented Layla told me so, whoever she is,
i probably would have met her, had i travelled to
India and walked from Bengal to Jerusalem,
walking across Persia - but i didn't, and since i didn't
i did the best i could: with my ego acting like a walking
stick, i crossed frontiers of what horizons came,
and all horizons consolidated themselves as a thought,
unblemished by choice - residue of ink,
not even a bone - to be incubated in the elemental,
a walking flask of water that i am, non-revelatory,
to enshrine myself in fire, to that likelihood i
am affectionate - all this stuff of coffin and burial
is humorous in the extreme black, the morbid rites,
expecting resurrections almost everyday -
so morbid - housing shortages due to cemetery spaces
needed, strange, isn't it? i expect we're hoping
to be the next stockpile of oil for other humanoids
later on - the mechanisation of our age, apparently
due to some great disaster -
as i wonder: historically speaking, isn't
reaching so far back into history, to the humanoids,
to the dinosaurs, to the big bang, sort of,
make our history slightly meaningless? the effort
to write it, you'd have to write it like a Holocaust...
and who wants to write history like that?
with affection, given the scaling of where we wished
to regress to: the big bang theory or no theory...
is... just... as... important... as... a... full... stop                    *.