I seek forever, understanding,
why do I fix so upon the Doomed?
So much beauty abounds, surrounds, all around,
yet the mind turns to the sick, sad and dying.
I wish this were stating a heart of compassion,
it is macabre fascination - the crushed gentle pigeon
to be swallowed by seagulls, the maggots that cleanse
crows' skulls with such love.
Prodding the guts of my soul with a stick,
I find their function, responses, purpose, perhaps.
Brother Donkey, Sister Ass, My Golem, My Zombie,
dissected to exposition, exploded diagram of
descriptions, prescriptions, and stuff.
Can a bear of little brain be
the same after the guts are re-sewn?
I remember when these broad fields
were fields as far as I'd see,
and now re-sown, broad-cast seeded,
they have become other - rotated crops to keep good health,
fine practice to keep, indeed, but moment by moment,
or as Aeons fly by, though the land is eternal,
every crop, to reap, must die.
Gather oats for Sister Ass, lest it be
less preparation than is needful.
Stewardhood may be the one true duty.
(2nd Oct 2012)