Canto LXXXI

Not seen a fog as thick as this in years,
it almost validates the solipsists
the way the world behind me disappears.

To all that think of white as pure and list
the darker hues as rendolent of death,
I dare you to look long into this mist

and let it fill each deep and drawn out breath,
this realm that ruffled Baudelaire’s feathers,
its constant urge to sleep and to forget.

Picture instead the naive dream of heaven,
the psyche ward hues, the orderly angels,
blissed out on Holy Spirit medication,

high mounted speakers giving you an earful
of thrumming harps, as galaxies collide
and black holes eat their planet-buffet fill.

I’d rather push a rock up a steep slide
within the gloomy caves of Tartarus,
and through boredom and anger I might find

a constant flow of meanings and hard truths.

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2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Niall O'Sullivan
    Nov 20, 2011 @ 13:02:31

    You can read the Baudelaire piece I refer to here: http://fleursdumal.org/poem/162 . I do love misty Autumn days, but the image of heaven as a celestial sanitarium forced its way into my head and I had to go with it.

    Reply

  2. peter litton
    Nov 24, 2011 @ 00:55:22

    Honest… your poetry is more interesting than watching junk TV. At least I come away with a head full of ideas.

    White is really scary… imagine a room where everything is white, you’d be scared to sit down or walk your trainers across the carpet.

    Heaven is even more scary…Imagine spending all eternity with Cliff Richard.

    I think you would make a good Sisyphus, a long haired ranting poet pushing a boulder up hill in order to find a constant flow of meanings and hard truths.

    Reply

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