Look at the squirrels in the garden:
in their grey jaws
the butter-coloured scraps of a yellow summer apple.
The raindrops frozen into crystal are howling; I am no longer —
the eaves silently count to a hundred, the clouds are singing,
everything is slowly being drawn into itself;
in the sky, up in the sky, enormous egos, winged,
fucking egos, writhe as clouds,
like mongrel snakes
out of Manchester’s shit-smelling exhalation.
Look, how beautiful the split-open sky is,
God’s fingers comb the blades of grass,
dog-walker shadows,
self-statues formed from fat:
selfish little faces,
feelings pressed from plastic.
I would sleep.
Look, how the Sun’s light dulls,
It winds peeled orange peel over the rooftops,
It is good to know my futility, that beauty,
that I lie here without value on the carpet,
like an unopened shoebox,
my own object,
the boring, identical,
ego-less nobody.
Look how weightless I am, a ghost:
If I do not blink,
I would not even be noticed on the carpet,
like a late-afternoon scream
woven into background noise.
Look, the squirrels keep jumping,
they do not even know that it is winter,
they do not know winter, the season,
and they do not know the other stupid human concepts either —
They just keep jumping there,
But this does not make them less selfish,
or different —
because of their lack of understanding,
They are simply more harmless.
I am no better either,
Selfishly, I want silence.
Silence, silence, pitch-black silence,
As if velvet were being wrapped around me:
I am disappointed too often,
I am afraid of you —
of the sea of song,
of the whirlpools of wills,
of the bright rows of teeth of lies.
Brgggg.
Selfishly: I exist, unfortunately —
and I know it, though I would avoid it,
but existence is not a matter of choice,
It is a temporary possibility
for hoping that you understand
something small of
what the future conceals,
the distance,
and the beautiful space
lied about as empty.
No comments:
Post a Comment