Pausing on the bridge of sighs I mark time’s inconsistency. One day, in leisure, the sloth eats shit The next the hawk, in killing haste; Missing the presence of the sorrowful glass, Still vacant despite the desires of the auburn shepherdess, Breaks its neck and lies in briars awaiting The attention of the scrambling alpine artist. Eternity now a boxed set, Sealed in plastic happy-bags. Who now shall let me lead, with sullied hand, The persuasive Debauchery waltz? I live bereft of time’s domain, Dancing through a world in dreams. I am aware, I do observe The brittleness of human truth But choose not to participate In sullied sports like sorry flagellation Or Perhaps the choice was never mine I asked not, after all, to be so self-employed Nor was it forced upon me. The spit in the beggar’s cup That was not mine. That’s not my name engraved On the cup of glittering prizes. This flawed flow is trans-dimensional The glass filled to the brim (Dawkins takes a sip Declares the vintage… logical) Yet The lock of saints is unconvinced Redundancy not their concern For they’re already dead And I am not And I… am not.
Recently ploughed and deeply rutted With dangerous streams to the left, We raced toward the honey funnel. The pig’s head, now bright As a champagne breakfast, was stoic Having long since passed its live-by-date. Whilst all the while the parachuting monkey Priest Dangled ‘neath the folding feeding chair that Once was new but now Was as redundant as a flock of stilled hyphens. I’ll rescue you from this! But first I must outrun The tweedy jacket’s froth And show my wife my love Is stronger than my will To saturate the keening krill. Yet torn by hurried hurricanes Of doubtful origin We stumble For lack of stable Purchase and Original Epiphany