2011-10-30 04:24:17 UTC
A limit in itself beyond which
the shapes of things seem distant-
apart from being a dim topic
this is a poem which may explain itself...
...with 'might' being the operative word.
So much has been said, has bin said before;
so much grabs at our ankles hollering
for explanation, for birth, for illumination.
Sometimes I just love to make words sing.
And other times I use words that clamber
over the parapets, the carpets, the parakeets,
over the lost souls, the ever present future,
constantly battling spellcheck who wants to
dumb down and flatten back my meaning.
I put words into banks, I try to s t r e t c h
sense and meaning, try to force the boundaries
while weeding out the uncommitted
with a super- dumb title.
Following with some elaboration stretches the sensibility-
I learnt to speak with words of two syllables, max, ...
I learned to shut up and close down the senses
I learned to swallow anger as the man
who swallowed the sea- I remember the graphic
and the lesson it taught me.
And roast pig- an essential component of Cantonese cuisine-
discovered when a farm house burnt down-
[they housed their animals inside]
touched, and rammed their burnt
fingers into their gobs- bingo, geronimo,
[take your pick] and immolated porkers
thereafter- [eureka would be another word.]
Lets brake the rules, let things go a bit...
find a sense unthought of, find a bit of fun-
remembering we are a long time dead,
a word is a limit in itself
it doesn't have to be elaborate
it doesn't have to be erudite
it doesn't have to be anything-
just a few lines tossed off
just a leap into the proverbial dark
just an attempt to transcend
it doesn't have to pretend
to be accessible, to be available,
to make any sense, to have any value,
it's scrambled, it's um, random,
it must trick the senses
into thinking its new and exciting,
and it must be, in the end
a pier, a launch pad,
a paradigm, and obsequious.
D A V I D G E O R G E