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Rambling.
by Foretacn
Writer
12 years ago
Lethargic liaisons between aspiration and leisure
Second always feathering the first's crude exterior
into a modest, depraved reality; hide tans to leather
In the rudest of excretions, can the mind trump superior
when all is a epitaph, etchings in an archaic tomb
and all that you thought was new, turns out to be done
and what claim is left for you? Farming infertile fields
with the residue of a rugged heart, outpourings fall all
to dregs, coalesce to the sediment that proves fine lodgement
for yardsticks, on a compatriot's road.
Set targets for a coming month, then realise it's behind you
neither creeping upon but rather falling away, through
the holes that you never dug, but rather didn't bother fill
It's a small pill called effort, yes, but it needs something
stronger than water, a poor, brittle mortar, to glue a
mishap pen world of a childlike idolatry to realistic form
a certain tangibility that others could analyse; aim to
share with you loads.
Whitewash out wall cracks with another distraction
the brush is the cursor, dip down in inaction there's
eyeballs drying for appreciation, over another ape's art.
There's a lacking, nay a burning, call it a sense of belonging
that a God couldn't substitute, no theistical Geist, no guide
No greater garrotte to choke doubt to a whisper, induce
linearity from a proclivity, to champ out on an unsavoury bit
call it "realisation" - a sensation that shit, no matter how full
of it you may be, is still a fine fertiliser. Take sand to your surmisings,
Roots do grow in the loam, and claw at the soil; rack up frustration's tallies in rock
There's an grave irony in tombstones; they take living tissue to erect
And when the whole world survives you, takes the jaws to your neck
squeeze steel to the marrows, cut chords, ill-respect for
sloth is a wickedness, you'll gain no respect for inaction.
Heck.
Out of a desire for a difference, some external deviancy
from the entree of normalcy, I took a injection of, what'dya' call it?
Be it vitamin D, that singular stimulant, that skin, with a situational poke
produces amply. I, amongst the narrowboats, stepped out in the sun
And shed panics to the waterside. Let the reeds rush alternately
with the labours of my chaos - It's not as if I treasured them
We can all do without dross.
/Feel free to like, watch, and hate at your pleasure/
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y'all.
Part of the poem is playing with the meanings of "rambling" - it bears a deliberate tendency to drift about, between rhyme schemes, metering, imagery and even period linguistics until a general sense of confusion is reached; in short, a rambling narrative.