The Will Of A Mad Poet

Seek inside what ye may, dear reader,

I shall divulge nothing!

None that was mine to give, anyway.

 

My death lends me,

An audience I never had

In waking hours;

But I am forgiving:

 

Read on, if you must,

Tear open a page and peep inside,

Your vulgar curiosities eager

To rape me of my secrets,

Secrets I left without maps.

 

Drink if you shall,

Of my jealous Love,

Of my crude Laughter,

The blind-alleys of blank pages,

The playing field for skeletons,

My memories too full and blemished,

To vouchsafe their safe garrison.

 

But, alas, you shall find my tomes,

Scattered and shuffled,

The words inscrutable, illegible,

Truant, runaway thoughts borne upon weak thrills,

Content to collapse in some faraway field

To call their home and graveyard,

My eager smiles planted as standards --

I owned the world!

 

Play with my verses, why don't you?

I orchestrated mad dances with these marionettes,

I think I left the strands somewhere beyond the seventh page,

Oh, do behave!

Their movements bewitch, dear reader,

Yes, they ensnare with their silver rhythms,

The bovine calm of their aligned ranks,

Is pregnant with mischief!

You must find them by their fringes,

And bully them into obedience!

 

Yes, I conscripted missionaries then,

Stolen from cloisters in faraway dreams,

Adroit masons of the mind

To prise ideas brick-by-brick,

Entire realities dismantled,

Tapestries and murals burnt with your hands,

Temples desecrated into theatres of my sins,

The dilated sun still at their backs,

Its radiance now cloaking their pained expressions,

Even as you sing my hymns.

 

My heart was opened on these altars,

The guts were parcelled in neat lines;

Careful not to touch them for too long,

These phrases are purer than sodium flakes --

Taste them not!

They will singe your insides!

Oh dear, did I ask you to drink them?

 

I folded storms in their static pockets,

And whispered explosions into their still waters,

There is lightning in the crevasses of those velvet skies,

Do tell when they find you!

 

I do hope the labyrinth wasn't too steep a tax,

The unavoidable toll for wistful trips

Into my gossamer homes,

Frenzied strokes of propriety the cheap décor,

To seduce your divided attentions;

My life lies yonder, do persevere,

The frescoes are grotesque and expensive,

Ignore them if you need to,

But do persevere and observe the dwarven castles,

I built them with proud hands,

These blisters are poetry too,

Metaphors, I think, I am not quite sure,

But do look at my castles!

I live in gossamer homes,

But do look at my castles!

 

These pages are doldrums when observed,

Unmount your high horses and approach,

Go poke them a bit,

Go shake a finger or two,

A little shout, some spittle,

Plant a kiss and run,

No?

Have you tried flirting, then?

Sung perhaps a serenade or two?

Drawn portraits in their likeness?

That should bring them to your foyers!

What, you were hoping for minstrels

Who would bare their chests and their hearts

With pretty words and simple tunes?

That you might digest their souls with ease

Your afterthought the burp afterward?

No, sir, my poems are not whores,

They must be cajoled and conversed,

They are my spoilt little princesses,

I have pampered them

With much devotion,

Dressed them with oriental dresses,

The very colour they demanded,

Found them niches kings couldn't locate,

Their tantrums are to be fanned, you see,

Their temper to be untempered,

Lest they wear the same corsets,

That marred their Mother.

No,

See them in their un-dictated beauty,

The cloying incenses nowhere near,

To make their entry more palatable,

They speak without preamble,

And bark in porcelain tongues,

Forgotten battles and forbidden sciences --

Do you find them beautiful yet, dear reader?

 

Alas, dear reader, I grow bored with you,

Do what you must of my work!

There is fire in these beasts,

That will fight your attempts to domesticate,

You will lead their train through our villages,

The limping gait with dopey cadences,

Mottled backs and frayed soles,

Curiosities that will capture and release,

So many onlookers,

All as decadent as you, dear reader,

For I know you will throw them aside

Once the circus of my stories has been spent.

 

Do as you will and call it necessity,

I live uninterrupted through your eyes,

My histories now becoming futures,

Alchemies of my chaos and art,

Does that make sense to you, then?

I had nothing to give,

Nothing that really was mine to give,

But I do bequeath thee,

In the laughter of your children,

In the actors of your civilization,

Honest insanity.