Wednesday, 14 September 2011

Dot the Eyes, Socrates

Common sense gimps against me,
Traditions and modes, renditions of old,
‘You’re not to do this, you do that’, I am told,
The old grey faces, solid and stone,
They bark in the wind and the rain,
For I am too young and too limber,
I am taut muscle in no-man’s weather,
I am the ancestor of grass,
The same wind combed us ages ago,
When young Greek girls gave their clenched wombs away
Before their thirteenth birthday,
When meat was worn as gold,
Glistening slabs of elk’s thighs high on sweating shoulders
And dirty-robed women undulating like freshly trampled crop,
I am standing, adverse, in the senseless, circular current
Like an unhappy child in a waterpark’s facet,
With too big a faucet to fidget with,
And I’m scared, more than unhappy,
Feels like a war that hasn’t yet started,
And I’m ruthless more than I’m scared,
Feels like my friends are the faithful departed,
But I am wonderful more than I’m ruthless,
Ruthlessness hangs itself there in my holster,
To serve and to bolster my wonderfulness,
Somehow alone, again, a master,
Somehow left looking at value and mirth,
At virtue and worth,
At god in the dirt and the tongues of the people
Like worms in his heart, an orgy of evil,
When righteousness came in the form of a boy,
So little and needing and wanting to cry
I cared for him dearly,
Up onto my shoulder’s to cross the mob’s river,
I’ll care for him, dear,
I have the glare of the old institutions of Ireland
Revealing my lean, tight and bold body’s stance
While the green, white and gold gets a fucking lap-dance,
The pride, the conceit, the people, the meat,
The poverty, piss, the principles missed,
The pale, the imprudent, their pricks are all polished,
Their balls are all licked,
The eyes of the men by the fountains are wicked,
It’s late in the evening; my love loves to please,
 The world is erring, dot the eyes, Socrates.

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