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Friday, July 18, 2014

Apothecary Confounds

I never could stand melodrama,
and yet here you are
come to add new heights to my reality,
(you see, I've started already)
look at these verses
in this ever spiralling
incessantly over-dramatised commentary;

for even I laugh at this poetry now:
its apothecary confounds the basics

of human mathematics: how does two become one exactly?
I mean really, how does this sum unfold?
and yet it does; and reprises above all else
this carpentry of joints, to unify the eyes and lips
to the leavened skies, where life brings you down
to the level of every surprise that raises you,
resurrects the very lines you thought had buried you;

and you open
like your lashes do to reveal your eyes,

velvet deep curtains embroidered gold,
and you welcome
the drama that unfolds
and every material thing it surmises;

with its grand undefined terms,
where we are merely characters, aren't we?
it feels like that somehow,
our strings pulled by the invisible hand of emotions;
we are love's inventions
setting its mise-en-scène in a staged play,
a story ever perpetuating
to live of and off its audience,
we enter and exit
according to the great dramatist;

and you welcome it, even when it confounds you,
you let it direct you, because you can't act without it;

for there is no way to repay
the way it makes you feel,
how it slowly steals the blood
and turns your thoughts to a flood
which carries you, and you hold on
with such sure faith even though
you don't know where the fuck it's taking you;

where you let it bury you, because you're dead without it,
and there is nothing mellow about love's drama, I've decided:

how bodies smash, and souls grind somewhere above,
and you quietly laugh in tune to find
your mercury levels syncing to two of a kind
as hands rub away the very rust of you,

how a pick axe and shovel work best with love
in a mind which is after all a coal mine
of diamonds and cakes of dirt
dug deep into the very dust of you;

and you excavate as she digs into you, deeper, deeper now,
and you allow the holes to deepen further
as she breaks on through, and you say, come then,
and let's see if you last longer than these words,
or this breath of mine, who will outlast
or end last in this summer pantomime?

where we laugh long days at these poems I divine,
and feed on the wild wine
of strawberries and sugared drops of cream,
greedily consuming the artefacts of passing time,
where all becomes remnants to rhyme
as we mark the senescence of dreams, hoping to defeat even time,
where we heed the fate of none other but of being,
but of loving, crazy, ridiculed, emasculated,
elasticated, fibrillated through all our god-given hormones,

for love is the original unmanned drone:
and we say let the world burn, bodies be damned,

let nothing stand in the way of this grand plan,
where you travel without a suitcase to go the distance,
eternity needs no luggage, it's simply a carriage
of energy, of light recognised in the dark,
and translated into a simple state:
like collecting acorns with you in the park,
or feeding the waddling ducklings by the lake
falling about trying to swim on land,

and then hand touches hand
and somewhere some god starts up the band:

the music is quite grand, but
a grande dame of the most irritating kind for a man,
and yet I find myself dancing in your arms,
as the ducklings quack and flap,
and I snap at how I never
could stand such melodrama,

but here you are
adding new sights to my reality,
and I can't help thinking: thank god for woman
who makes such nonsense out of me,
in this ever spiralling
incessantly over-dramatised commentary.

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