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Gabriel K. Aspinall
Indigestible
It
will not rhyme. Time,
that motion of change and flux, Is
just an optical glass Where
eternity may be glimpsed. As
through a port hole of a ship, The
full extent of land May
not be viewed, But
as we near coast, and stand on deck And
look, full-eyed in wonder, Our
trip’s finality becomes, clearer Closer,
coloured: This
is the coming of age. The
coming of age, does not, Though,
understand Fully,
the shape of leaves in scrutiny, Nor
the soil’s consistency, Nor
the paw-prints of indigenous. But
as our feet Move
to extent of land, Step
from the port-holes and the ship, Then
eternity may be glimpsed, Without
an optical glass Or
the flux and change: Out of Time. It
will not rhyme.
Ugliness
seems unequivocal in these unreal times Ugliness
is everywhere in these unreal, eventual times Of
murderers and molests, malingerers and marred men; These
times where brothers live like Abel and Cain, And
the name of divine is taken freely in vain. In
these ugly times where by Man’s hand, Man is slain. Ugliness
seems redolent in every bar I walk In
the pubs, the social clubs, the restaurants and hotel function-rooms, And
those drinks are no longer jolly and light-hearted They
are raw and callous, acrid, And
that is no characterisation, That
is Truth. Only
on moors and forests and retreating lakes Where
silence’s relaxed snooze never wakes Only
here may we, the quiet and concerned, drink slowly And
happily without that rush of the unholy That
surge of the irreverent, that plush Raucous
marauding that disturbs our gentle hush. Only
in fields and maybe empty flats Or
maybe, maybe deserted streets where only you are sat With
a grin, a red nose, and ruffled hair And
an empty, unassuming stare. Maybe
there, maybe there. But
for now, nowhere; I
will not risk these unreal and ugly times, Risk
a burden unneeded, Be
looking over my shoulder; Be
a-warned of antagonisers and aggravators; The
end is not great enough,
This hangover and grating cough, No,
no, not today. From now on no. Instead
I shall search the highlands Of
my mind, The lagoons Of
my heart, the caverns of conversations, The
streams of lonesome men, The
forests of shied women, curious And
concerned, the drop-in centres, The
homeless hostels, The
whispering wide-eyed lunatics Lost
in this unreal world; O
my carousel companions! And
I shall find them, For
they are everywhere, but nowhere if you Have
never looked, they are the men That
keep the walls together The
women that feed the children They
are the third nipples of the world The
eccentrics never noticed; They
are the mad before the one-two-three
glugs of
workmen by the varnished wood.
And they are all around.
Behind your houses
In your fields
Collected on mounds
Of burnt and decayed,
They sell you songs
And they sell you curses: And
you need no liquor from a keg to keep them
jovial. We
are the mad and wide-eyed And
we shall be left standing, gaping at what we always knew; With
body upon body; Bodies everywhere; Bodies
in the bars, Bodies at the judge’s bar, Bodies
by the cars, Bodies still in bathtubs. And
we, the outcasts and untold savoir-faires, we Shall
see it all as it was shown through Balls
of glass and crass cards And
prophecies of bearded, naked pariahs in the desert. And
now we shall be bearded and naked in the desert. And
then, When
all has come to nothing And
I may sing with Solomon as he rises from his grave, Then,
yes then, I
may drink a wooded vintage, and cry “Health!” And
cry, “Health to we mad insightful, Health
to we listeners to the whispers, Health
to Julian, Health John upon his Cross, Health
to writers, dreamers, thinkers, and wide-eyed Men streaked with loss. Health
lovers of Truth. Health lovers of anything. Health,
we few surviving.” Yes.
Then I will take my drink, and brandish it with these words, And
we shall be all lunatic, gathering in forgotten herds.
copyright © Gabriel K. Aspinall |