Saturday, 13 February 2010


With love and without it,
With words and without them,
With this life and without it,
What else is there?

Death is only somewhere else,
Without feeling.
All there is for the man,
For the woman
And the animal is this,
The doing and the being.
Profoundly the responsibility.
Without life there is nothing at all.

In the perpendicular of things
We play, making it up
For ourselves on the journey.
There is no way, no one way to right,
No ways, right to wrong.

But nevertheless,
We seek equilibrium in chaos,
Trying to meet the expectations of gods
And failing hard,
Falling in quiet disgrace.


What is a Profess – ionale like?
Such as one becomes amongst others,
Those who, too, come entitled,
Quietly or not,
As Profess – ionals.
A certain uniform
As requirement
Quali – fi - cations
All of those.
What am I?
Upon this ledge,
Standing as I do,
Bending with the wind,
Unfit to snap,
But so profoundly bowed,
Like an Olive limb bearing fruit
And pissing sap.
Where is my Pro – fess – ionale?
Confess – ionale more like.
A constant unburdening,
The opposite, in effect,
But just the same as donning a
Hair shirt.
“Ridiculous stuff!” I think,
Begins running through my mind.
Or is that the judgement of the uneven effect,
Of the voices, hauling me, always,
Hard up against,
The hot coals of social order and keeping me in check.
I’d run around naked on stage,
Foolish without my flag code
Preserving the embarrassment of skin.
I’d spell out the title:
‘AA - AA - AA - RG - H!’
Keeping me Profess - ional.

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