NEW POEMS Testaments Toussaint Closures Complicity Cavalcade Canard NEW PROSE Schadenfreude Pride of Place Skyrrets Higher Things |
COMPLICITY
Philosophy as a Career For Aengus You can’t live on ideas alone. It’s necessary to bring money home. Philosophers must polish up their stone, and coleporter it from door to door. The unemployed have seen it all before. Kellogs can’t alchemy into ore, or or. The wise men explain it well. Money in essence is conceptual. Alas, householders tell them go to hell. Fragments from the Garden of Madness ……… I speak on behalf of spurned flowers. Overlook us and we’ll overgrow your bowers and darken your path. You should have picked us when the chance was yours. Suffocating thickets offer no choice now. They’ve grown to hate you. Begin again. What will exaggeration do to mitigate, or not, the suffered slight which all the world says was an oversight. At least you didn’t uproot us, and leave a hole for the kids to fall into. I’m losing control once more. What is it? Shrinking violets withdraw their scent and fade. I’d rather dilate in war. My cry - ‘Is it because I’m inconspicuous you did not pick me?’ (It’s no longer ‘us’. ……… Spurned flowers are surplus to requirements.) ……… To engage original sin, is a losing battle. Innocence can’t win. So I make a wilderness of your garden by hosing it down with caustic carbon, which eats away the soil, and what remains is the lone stalk of a thousand untold shames, shuddering at itself. Where was I? Paradise has been banished, but the rains will arrive again to dilute the acid, and stir the seeds that keep warm in winter under dead leaves, and spring up when no one’s looking to bloom. Take a deep breath of my poisonous perfume… Jules, the Friendly Ghost The dead pass through my mind not as strangers, but as visitors from the past. Welcome Jules, who knew the joys, but not the dangers, in wine. Your evil smile, second to none in complicity, could lead me astray. And did, but not too far. You were the one who didn’t know the difference between day and night in the end. The moon was your sun. Or was it the other way round? Angels attend your walking siesta. The sway of the earth on its axis challenges our dream of irresponsibility. Ouai! Your seven steps to heaven began to stum- ble when your wee brown dog Jim ran away. Figuring Marianne Picasso knew what he was painting. The true face of France is on the beach. A woman’s figure of eight, facing the sun which melts her Mont Blancs into a pool of olive oil for omelettes. Shame is in the face, not the bottom. |