Sunday, September 21, 2014

fools play


when the world no longer seems to make much very sense
people seem like strangers, bodies present tense
the eyes that are the windows … too soon the shutters drawn
the voice that could clothe spirit leads seldom to furrawn


what is this strange enchantment – that breeds such fear and doubt?
glass bells, Ms Nin did call them, that gird us roundabout
attenuating feelings which used to be no threat
which used to be the reason the day we rose and met


the child we were is long gone, or so we might apprise
but perhaps the child is simply ourselves when most alive
but childhood ends too quickly – for some it hardly starts
when love comes on condition no more the child takes part


from here a sed-i-men-tary
process does begin
as more and more conditions
begin to settle in
but morality is always
the most tragic irony
declare a fruit forbidden
and desire for it will be
and together with desire
its shadow known as shame
catch-22 we call this, or
the nature of the game.
the solution, like the problem,
a conjoined duality:
develop pride and self-esteem!
the lesser man, pity.


the carrot and the stick show is what we all are in
a freudian pavlova called ‘the nature of your sin’
which is the sin of nature, now that’s getting to the heart
of how this thing got started and how reason plays its part

which brings us to the hero of our little escapade:
the one for whom grand reason is but tepid lemonade
the one for whom the feelings of the child are always right
the one for whom the darkness is actually the light
the one for whom the heavens shine up from underground
the one for whom the dancer is the joy of life unbound
the one for whom the angels do recognise most nearly
the one for whom the livingness of life is felt so dearly
the one for whom no boundaries nor barriers exist
the one for whom adventure is always worth the risk
the one for whom words fail ‘cept when they come in song
the one for whom the young and old and animals do throng
the one for whom the watchword is not a word at all
the one for whom a lover is always worth the fall
the one for whom the world is nothing but a jest
the one whose own simplicity means life is not a test

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