be such

true to my nature: greedy for -- love, loveliness, woman -- she sat before me in a sleeveless blouse and I undressing her with my eyes. Licking her humid armpits and wandering about in imaginary lubricity. Beautiful? No! But a nubile young woman at the apogee of her reproductive potential. And I a lecher wondered what our children might be. Laughing now at my imaginary mating; as like that of mice, not exactly recreational.

An astrologist whose service stipulated by my gay, nudist, Episcopal Priest, friend and therapist - did I mention he was? Is? A Jungian? Giving Communion on “Clothing Optional Beaches”?! In retrospect I imagine it was only in summer; for in Rhode Island, starting in November, the leaden skies seemed predominate and chilly at that ending the Hurricane Season.

Somewhere amongst my tumid lust she remarked I might be a poet and i, at that time, was standing upon the platform, one foot upon the departing train, the other firmly rooted. implying or inferred, that change was inevitable. Apparently she was well regarded. Living in Rhode Island commuting to Washington, The District of Columbia to beguile and advise our fearless leaders.

The oddest part about now compared to then: I have no identity. My name is meaningless, my history absurd, yet daily, if not hourly, I am subject to expansion becoming more transparent with each moment experienced . . . leaping light years, passing through mountains of stone, sober I become more so.

To me then and even now poetry was something out there beyond the beyond; an inconceivable icon, glorious like God unknowable and dense beyond steel . . . thinking ‘oh dear God, do I have to eat the whole thing?’

More laughter, I loved my mother so, she baked an Easter Cake in the shape of an Lamb; in a borrowed mold. The exterior was burnt to a crisp and ate the whole thing since it seemed to assuage her tears as she baked another.

Jesus! Or the idea/ideal of Him is the root of my being. And oddly seems, to not despise my rude and salacious self. The tree that I have become has many prophets of other definitions of God or the idea/ideal of “God” hopping randomly, flittering about, from limb to branch. Flapping off to far distant places returning with new definitions of what “God” is or is not: like or about.

If, as I have said of myself, I am too stupid to live, as ignorant as a stone. You might more readily identify with my sense of hopelessness. Despondent when confronted with what passed then, in my time, as an education . . . if you required me to diagram a simple sentence, you might as well have said; “I’m going to draw and quarter you between these four elephants and then eat whats left alive. When I speak of our fearless, lemming like, leaders chasing the illusion of wealth and/or wisdom I know the term “scatocephalic” by experience not conjecture. My vision/version is they are going in circles like greyhounds. And “Civilization” being a transparent veneer upon savage predation. As it was in the beginning it remains. . . “An eye for an eye,” and no mercy, compassion or empathy possible.

Oh well
. . . so what else is new?

My point being that poetry is impossible when I’m not in the mood. Yet I know the Why of it and requisite vision to incarnate it. Regarding Astrology, I have no faith in it. Add that M said; “You can put in a change request/order!” Accepted as Gospel I have begun to wonder what the nubile young very f. . . .able meant? I remember, only opposition, in the chart, now laying within the tomb of an landfill . . .

My thesis is that nothing, virtually, is ever lost in eternity. Regardless the idle pleasure of those who know nothing of war, save profit, who in the anticipation of glee and larger bank accounts, sacrifice other people’s children profligately.

I sense last things, end game, the leaves turning, then falling. Myself soon to be barren, dead falling into dust. What and why I write is merely to speak to others like myself who are intransigent; ignorant of their actual value to Creation . . . Reverting to my sense, dyslexic, that we are applauded by one hand clapping. Yet to me, the universe speaks and I know not why? But then this seems more true of poets than I.

Add, at best, I don’t want to be here in future time, short as it may be, given my lifelong seeking for an excuse to live another day. The force and power is in the hands of those incapable of empathy, making everything material for their greed. . . . I know what good is and it is seldom found; remaining as it was in the beginning will long last my departure and silence.

- Eric Idle
"If anything can survive the probe of humour it is clearly of value, and conversely all groups who claim immunity from laughter are claiming special privileges which should not be granted." 

130329 03:41 be such
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved