They say one ought not drain the reservoir. A quill can only dip so deep. Shallow waters make for substandard shadings. A certain desperation though, may well be conveyed.
Conveyed thus is the want of a waning scribe. Sunstruck pools flatter wainscot ideals, fleeting grandeur, illusions, glib happenstance purified, pureed, pissed up against a carboard cliff face.
Cast derision upon the cut and clip lyrical approach, find divine rinds in amongst a twist of sticking plugs. You see all along there was a malfunctioning juicer set to de-humanize. For all the good it would do you might as well have thrust your fist into its lacerating crux. By Job you could sing the very alphabet.
Sign a frenzied cry for help. Usher religious busy-bodies into coal-lit sheds. Shed prejudice in favour of yet-unheralded delight. Reject the advance of figures of authority. Sail head-first into political gatherings. Gather yourself. The nonsense has been run right through. Set the dials for a principled compulsion.
———————————————————————————————–
The only instruction….
Let me dig these threadbare pockets,
See I’ve got this little crinkling episode
It mightn’t be any good but I’ve to read it
Yes
It may well be
That the artistic nature
Accounts for that class
Of offensive pests: the socially ill-equipped
Perhaps the truth
Pertains more to an inconsistency.
The two compared, characteristically speaking…
It could well be a chance thing.
If we accept this meanwhile as sooth
Happily then rendering the socially incapable
As a sorry bunch, filth-ridden;
All the more worthy of remedy are they then? Of some lenience?
Despite the preamble fore-sworn lacking any real coherence,
Let me continue: Society can scarce afford
To dismiss the gifts fermenting in the guts of our most stunted stand-abouts.
(Do make allowance for any coarseness, botched antiquity of phrasing, general shoddiness etc…)
One could very well be persuaded
That this crooked lot be condemned
Thus ridding those social adepts
Of another scourge, a mild annoyance that they could be doing without.
Can you imagine a world though
Bereft of knackered John, at dance around the lamp post in his faded butcher’s apron?
Or bleeding Gregory Pack, cavorting with the one straight priest in the parish?
They’re our busted uncles. It’s only your manic aunt.
I’d near trample that dancing drunk all over the footpath
Truth be told I see too much of myself in him,
The run-down scapegoats of every gene-pool’s puddle.
And aren’t they lovable? Bedraggled damp codgers, wet with yesterday’s piss.
If there’s a true and proper reason for it
Who am I to clarify, or bludgeon ignorant heads either?
I’d just like to see those beasts gathered up in a warmer huddle.
Can we stand them a further minute? Mind your purse now.
————————————————————————————————————-
Arthur was working the scythe. We weren’t to speak when Arthur was at the scythe. I stood back. Tossing about some loose scenario with our Arthur as the renowned Reaper, I’d to stifle a silly laugh. Silliness was frowned upon, probably a gateway to mild sinning in the black flood. They’d to cleanse all debauchery of romance. Puritans weren’t in the least bit like what they go calling ‘Goths,’ nowadays. Pleasure was a lash in the back, a remittance whose strain you couldn’t accept blame nor credit for.
Our boy was murdering the corn, his technique impeccable. You’d to hand it to him, he had a way with the blade. My job was to gather to gather the ear. Some hick-jackal once chided me that the sack I was wrangling with had seen better days with black slaves. Arthur said that if he ever heard that layabout talking like that again he’d show him ‘what it’s like.’ I was aware of what he meant by that more or less, sensed its vague danger. It was the distinction in my mind though, which was a nice way of saying that I was different. It was my way to want to investigate and to find out exactly what somebody like Arthur meant by taking a heckler away to show him ‘what it’s like.’
You could suppose the encouragement and chastisement that I got from Mr Rich sent me mostly in this direction. Writing my thoughts down so that they could keep track. Isn’t it nice when people take an interest? Arthur said that those good people become less and less when you get to being a ‘serious man.’ He never had a lot of time for hecklers, Arthur.
Mr Rich valued imagination. I mean, I presume that he did. It was written on the classroom board. He was genuine though. One of those exhorting jaunty sorts. I’m pretty sure he imagined himself as some hip, lean general, once more unto the breach and all that. We gave him a pass. He probably was stifling a few laughs of his own, chortling down those foppish sleeves. Without irony he dressed after an approximation of DaVinci, or one of those slave musicians maybe… There was this one boy in our class who was a genius. Of the best sort, very funny, and I’m doing him no justice here. You’ll have to believe me, great guy. Became a teacher himself, probably could’ve changed the world, but I don’t know, he never did the requisite drugs, I suppose. That’s how it goes with a puritan, there are only so many directions they can go. And they put all of those ragged in the workhouse. Keep them off the streets. It’s really best one gets out. Arthur and them are where they’re supposed to be. For you and me though, it’s got to be different.
elijahoneillblog 