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Neither love nor psychiatry
got tricks or tenacity to transfigure me
into a drug-free butterfly.
If life and the pursuit of liberty
are such good ****, why aren't I enticed
into cold turkey chrysalice?
If I made it past the switchboard, got my minute with Raj Persuad,
I'd say I am more habit than man coz I was ill-starred
- addiction's but one player at tapioca table of my failures,
and I've never changed for the better before.
 
I'm:
not old flame phoenix burned his partridge ******* off;
not the prodigal son soon his patriarch's boss;
not the artist formerly known as Vincent Van Frog
obits tongued into  prince of avant-garde old rot;
not the Clark Kent who transpires scion of Krypton,
and when he goes cross-eyed, does his own laser eye-corrections;
not ugly duckling whose **** gets worn to the bone
thru later over-exposure as a midlife crisis swan;
not bad egg that makes good under the yoke of kizmet,
blossoms into KFC bargain bucket innit;
not the kid who's cuffed 'n' cuffed whilst Childline's engaged,
yet still eschews the Cycle of Abuse - it's Satan's baton-change!
 
So wherefore drug-free butterfly that hatches
en route to a dope-kickin' Damascus?
Daren't unfold a flutter I'd hover even
over lefthand downstroke of the 'u' in 'u-turn'.
 
No re-entry to mentor here, civic harumpher,
straightandnarroristocrat whose bile is haute catarrh,
pillock of the community!
Coz we crooked men only know the way in crooked miles,
don't deserve jeers from Jesus or Jeremiah Kyle,
or the one they call 'Jerryjerry'.
Now, wings of new leaves, one's potential papilionaceous
is natural high they push at Narcotics Anonymous,
but chemical schlemiels relapse coz losers can't be cured
- ain't snapped my fingers and been less crap before!
 
I'm:
not black sheep who scrubs up Baa-barack O-baa-bama
(or even your sentimentalest sweater, knitted by your
                                                           deadest granma);                                    
not this summer's surprise cult hit,
tho' the critics at the preview concurred and had a kip;
not the Strangeways yo-yo who winds up his Folsom blues,
and credits his reformation to the kindness of screws;
no poindexter who in Freshers' week scarce partook,
but fast forward,  four-eyed ***'s Fonzie on Facebook;
not aurum de stercore success-story like the fable
of the goose 'bout to be cooked who lays a golden cable;
not the Chinese Rock star who lives past 27
- Grim Reaper Grammy outrocks rehabby ending.
 
So wherefore drug-free butterfly's eclosion
into denial or Eden, on wings 12 Steps map-pattern?
But I'm a no-show imago, cobwebbed cocoon,
monged a teenage pod of sloth to postpone more misfortune.
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Seated in a window was a young man named Eutychus,
who was sinking into a deep sleep as Paul talked on and on.
When he was sound asleep, he fell to the ground from the third story
and was picked up dead.*     [Acts 20:9]


Ye Olympian poets, hearken well
while the fall of a tragic youth I tell.
My Lydian lay, unsung by Homer
in pastoral ages far and former
shall warn and chasten your Patrician ears
recalling bygone Hellenistic years.
Pardon the insufficient gravitas –
the intention here is not blasphemous…

Saul, since Damascus and the desert days
had progressed to his apostolic phase;
a minor Asian town, Trojan Troas
lent him their ears. What we came to know as
Western Judeo-Christianity
was birthed in near-comic humanity.
But Saint Paul was completely serious
feverishly focused, quite delirious.

And so the first story he narrated-
second, then a third story related,
foreshadowing from Moses’ law the Christ
and Gentile nations grafted in, or spliced
as shoots from a wild rebel olive tree;
the Eternal One who is Trinity…
and many other holy mysteries
he taught and unlocked with scriptural keys.
By his third story, some eyelids fluttered
the lamps burned low while his truths were uttered.
The allure of Aegean night was deep –
but he offered something greater than sleep.
Among them one languished, barely alert,
a young (very tired) Grecian convert.

Eutychus nodded, his frame lightly propped,
in the night-freshened window. He had stopped
heeding Saint Paul who was preaching Jesus…
and thus he surrendered to Morpheus.

Unfortunate, weary, his tired head nods;
still exegeting from beyond, Paul plods.
Finally, the liminal threshold reached
E. falls – to encounter the power Paul preached.
His toga billowing as he plummets
from peaks of Christological summits,
he descends to gather cryptic renown
and a dubious New Testament crown.

Was E. bored to death by St. Paul’s discourse?
Descending from grace – did he stay the course?
Was his revival a first holy fruit –
or an arrival by alternate route?
One wonders, in retrospect- was he saved?
or is this a picture of mankind, depraved
fallen in slumber, oblivious, dead
until Truth’s unkindness touches our head…
Like Lazarus, this one had to die twice
We ask: how many more deaths would suffice?
Did he talk to the Lord while departed?
Could he fathom what Jesus had started?
Like Luke’s blind man, the sin was not his own,
but that God’s power be openly shown.
For his pains: a two-fold resurrection
rebirth through Paul and divine election.
(Unless the whole thing was allegory –
mere Jewish fable or pagan story…)
Don’t censure my Lydian levity
nor discount apostolic gravity
lamenting the youth bored to death by Paul;
we discern, in Eutychus, our own fall.
Revived, he learned, before the rest of us,
the difference between Christ and Morpheus.

If there be details still to verify
or vague scenarios to modify,
we shall, in heaven, request to hear it
from the lips of Eutychus’ own spirit.
(And then we can corroborate with Paul
The how and the who and the wherewithal.)
Read all about it in Acts, chapter 20

— The End —