Oct 2018
Somebody’s sister scratched me sterile this morning
Today being the second Saturday of the first month
When the sun never shone
And with it my enthusiasm flattened and thawed
Dawn was unkind to this infantile as he plunged into the unknown
There was no respite from the **** of the cordial and the sanitised
From the farce that awaited in the timid mid morning
Soup of the day was feigned appreciation
The coronation of a never-known martyr
And placing of a Plasticine halo
The one without frown lines had nothing in her eyes
And Red, I felt, burned with the soft soapy rebellion of a mute fool
A wishy washy revolt of none
As I sat there wilting heresies at the extremities
Calling for the clown car that never come
Daring myself to say “he hated his sister”
To break the mould
And mute the truce
Splash Windermere in their wounds and watch them run for cover
End
Today being the second Saturday of the first month
When the sun never shone
And with it my enthusiasm flattened and thawed
Dawn was unkind to this infantile as he plunged into the unknown
There was no respite from the **** of the cordial and the sanitised
From the farce that awaited in the timid mid morning
Soup of the day was feigned appreciation
The coronation of a never-known martyr
And placing of a Plasticine halo
The one without frown lines had nothing in her eyes
And Red, I felt, burned with the soft soapy rebellion of a mute fool
A wishy washy revolt of none
As I sat there wilting heresies at the extremities
Calling for the clown car that never come
Daring myself to say “he hated his sister”
To break the mould
And mute the truce
Splash Windermere in their wounds and watch them run for cover
End
I once attended a meeting of an amateur writers’ group which was being held in a local museum. Simultaneously there was an exhibition focused on Dorothy Wordsworth- William Wordsworth’s sister- being shown. The subject of the meeting was a critical appreciation of Dorothy Wordsworth’s diaries. All the participants expressed nothing but soap, syrupy praise for Wordsworth and it felt a bit contrived and disingenuous. Empty. Much emphasis was placed on the allegedly strong relationship between Wordsworth and her famous brother. The whole time I was wanting to say “I bet he hated his sister” but I refrained and remained cordial and compliant. This poem focuses on the unconditional praise ****** upon Wordsworth’s legacy and the frustration with which I observed “wilting heresies from the extremities”.
