Oh, tell us!
Won’t you tell us?
The master-poet smiled.
The smile meant no.
He adjourned to the coast to die.
From a clifftop verandah he peered down
At the swash, hoping for a glimpse of Venus,
Birthing on the waves.
He didn’t see her,
And so he lay down to die.
Crowds bubbled to hear The Simile:
Students, professors, aficionados,
Past lovers, fellow poets,
Those who knew the master-poet
As a sardonic cad.
I’m like the tooth fairy,
In that I’m secretly your Dad.
I know the universe works mentally…
I know everything.
He came upon a revelation.
We all see it differently.
A summer’s breeze
Is nothing is
One soprano in an Aeolian choir is
God’s breath is
A brotherly flux in air pressure is
Feeling balmy on the skin after
All day sending emails.
The mind is as malleable as code:
You can edit, you can edit, you can edit.
He realised later that God was not one
And if not He, then who?
Misery clinched the crannies,
Constant as thought.
He was a wind-up lantern in semi-solid fog;
He scarcely saw his hands as they worried the crank.
The sun did not rise today-
He pounced unannounced,
Shouldering his jealousy
Into the unguarded Earth.
He’d seen, you see,
How she seldom shied
From the lips of the breeze;
He’d noted too
The chiselled moon,
And how he’d come early,
Adorning the blue.
So as long as he might,
He kept his lover in sight,
Stifling her surface
With a cloying love bright.
Her grass he yellowed,
And my skin pinks,
Blushing until, reluctant,
Like ermine in the summertime,
I’ll need you
Six months ago.
If she sells seashells in south Seychelles
And he sees those same shells with a keen glean for resale
And steals them at wholesale for a sixteenth of their retail
And retreats upshore with a privately-armed detail
To shore up his export from Victoria to a female
Who had entreated by email that he depart for Seychelles
To see about those seashells
Then return to the Tennessee Dales
So she might inweave coastal scree trails
Upon her textile in greyscale
Designed not to regale but to derail
Shell’s feelers amidst the deep shale
But this actavist’s glee in Actavis meant that she fell
From a height now deemed lethal
So her project was reshelved
Until her complete works sold pell-mell
To a collector in Seychelles
Who had wedded that same shell-sell
Who eddied this whole verse tale
– has the world been well?
Fear that I frittered my teenage years
And will stay playing catch-up
For however long I’m here;
Fear that a taut abdominal wall
Is the only partition
Between me, Joe Bloggs, et al.;
Fear that I can’t yoke words like Danny Brown,
Or spill seventeen pitchers
Of wit whilst acting the clown;
Fear that I do things I knew I would not,
Fear that my old-old-self I,
By necessity, forgot;
Fear that my idols are far less than their prattle;
Fear that i don’t really fear
This fear list