This is Poetry.
The unparaphrasable,
great verse sold short
digested reader’s decoration.
This is me, exercising my poetic right
to live in the potentially enormous
gap between illusion
and the catcher and refractor of light.
The production of imagination
stretching a tight skin over chaos.
And in a fight with civilised values over barbarity
I believe man blights nature.
And this allows me to identify
with the instincts that create
the courage and grace
of an old body.
But I still struggle towards thought
through the versions of instincts
that community created.
I was littering
aware that I was not alone
in breathing the fresh smell
of sulphur and sadness:
the smell of the community of ghosts
that tried to live in my art house,
enticing my own lost selves inward.
I might have inhabited an initial dislocation,
that comedy of the human situation
your partner forces you into.
In your coward corner you reach for
an aid to invent
those solemn faces and grand intentions.
Despite evidence to the contrary
a certain distrust tells me
that the devil is likely to have some
if not all of the good tunes,
and will always draw attention to the complicated matters,
and to the arbitrary meeting of differences.
Whilst rampant individualist capitalism
(a collection of mistakes) holds no personal resistance
to the final solution.
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