A Wraith Named Happiness SaidOver porch-steps, door-mats, window-sashes I slide; a waif with tangled hair, Slipping through translucented blind-slashes With the doomed ardour of despair. Your forebears quested lifetimes for my grace, Now I haunt you who should hunt me; Under the wrinkling white bulblight you place Hack-work, which my home shall not be. Seeking me, alas! Is not now your care: In your own court you stand accused Of craven deeds you deem so dire, you dare Not heed my knock; and so, refused I watch you burn a heart that could be whole, Cede your head to broodings bitter; Steadily squander your riches of soul On trifles not worth a fritter I out in the wilds, you in your brick cage, We dwindle in mutual, futile rage; Deaf to the thing both know is true: You ache for me as I for you Neither To Nor Of Me‘In your future, I see death,’ said the meme, Neither to nor of me. I pseudo-shrugged At the little gold box whose sturdy gleam Served as pea-plant support for my fingers I answered, with consciously feeble wit ‘Yes, and so? Every future holds death, no?’ And every present too that is unlit By hope. But that was not why I scrolled past So quickly. See, the vulture within me Surged into my eyes and the shrinking words Yanked from my mind-pen in unholy glee And hissed: ‘Good egg. That sounds like quite the lunch.’ See, all art-makers are born part vulture Part petrified soul-cages, corpses-to-be: We feed on our death and call it culture So you may oblivious live and love. Only This Morning This morning, they packed their only large box, Laughing as the child picked and unpicked A doll to take; counted the pairs of socks Ten times, still came up one short: scowled, then kicked The stray one out of sight, giggling with guilt. This morning, the limp huddles on the grass Studded with glass shards cupped in blood and skin Loved and mocked the old handles of brass On the peeling leather that held within Colours of freedom, of lives on dreams built. This morning, the sky was a cheerful blue, The grass green, the walls a delicate cream, Solid, unperishing, lasting, meant to House three generations of the old dream, Of hard-won happily ever-afters. This morning, a wyvern’s lash of flame split Their world in two, in ‘after’ and ‘before’. After, grey from cellar to cloud, will knit Dust-scarves for the tattered box, making sure Of its one witness left neath those rafters. 'First published in Celestal Review Literary Magazine' Pearls Of Wisdom From The Ancestors‘One race alone matters, this you must win: It’s about the money you can bring in. Win, and it does not matter How or why or what you won Nor what you lost in its stead You won.’ ‘Yes, but you don't -’ ‘Just so. Therefore, I know Winners bask in the sun the livelong day In a world schooled to clap and look their way’ ‘One race alone matters, this you must win: It’s about the money you can bring in. Lose, and it does not matter How or why or what you lost Nor what you won in its stead You lost.’ ‘Yes, but you don't -’ ‘Just so. Therefore, I know Losers are weeded and cast out to stray By a world schooled to wince and look away’ Vane-Chaunt Of Inked FeathersTomorrow, we know, we may lose
Our bits of choked words, and so choose To croak our truths before the mesh Of language fleeing poésie’s thresh Closes upon us, enforcing Decrees of silence, endorsing Falsehoods for bread, forged afresh Of language fleeing poésie’s thresh Like regret, thin as mist, that tells Yawning children of tolling bells And horns blown in vain, of crèches Of language fleeing poésie’s thresh Like a tired metaphor wobbling Its way into a verse, stumbling Upon channels for the fleches Of language fleeing poésie’s thresh
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