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poetry I

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poetry II


TheOgre - by kes

why is it we die? , he asks, nose protruding through a screenhole looking
into a barber shop, observing the floor of living hair choking on the
what sympathy for prosaic things, he must be an Ogre or something  ...
You are born as a baby and you die as a baby into a child, you die as a
child and are born into a teenager, you die as a teenager and are born into
delinquincy and small crimes for young offenders,
you start driving too fast, eating too many high sodium hamburgers, drinking
too much on weekends, smoking till your lungs turn blue, screaming radio
dogma into your best friends ear till he can't take it anymore and says he's
had it, so he buys a one way ticket to Amsterdam and blames all his
countrymen for the evils in this world. Then leaves.  Surprisingly doesn't
blame you for anything.
Of course when he comes back hardly anyone shows the same
familiarity or friendliness found on long roads going nowhere ... out there
... lost in the world. 
Yes!  And that's the god's truth.  Home!  ... my countrymen ... is a prelude
to culture and patriotism, racism, violence and war he screams!  It is a
blind continuum, irreversible and non-repeating ... the mendicant's
serpentine brain evolving through the foreshadows of bleached skin.  I want
out, damn it.  I want out of my skin, immediately.  Get a step on it.  Home.
he continues, is the place we eventually die in ... which is either the
ultimate irony or the ultimate insult, depending on how you look at it, but
probably too, it is both!
He stammers through his sentences like he were on peyote in October.  The
rains sung by bored tribesmen ... oarspeople at the helm of a sunken barge
... in the mellow decaying afternoon... drinking hot tea ... sifting through
the empty pieces. 
The sun holds the attention of his eyes.  It's always the sun he says that
is following everyone
People are only looking for a place they can call home and when they get it,
they improve upon it,  and sell it at a profit, and then they go out and buy
another, and do much the same thing with it.  I call this the Home metaphor.
The Ogre kneeling in his sleepy hollow ... ears tucked behind his dark cap.
Bold eyes glued on infinity.
It is not that we leave the earth.  It is that we leave the Earth in PEACE!
He's mumbling again, talking tall tales into the knots of the tree, stuffing
envelopes of words into the creases.
Do you notice how the Home metaphor has no mention of destination?  Hunh?
... as for everyone else ... or anyone else ... where the destination is
more important ... Where we are going?  What does the future mean?
Where is we going, eh there?  Where is ya goin off to today?
And getting back to that being born and dying stuff ... where we are born
into adulthood and we die as adults to be born into old age, where we die
quietly and gracefully, as anyone would understand it.  Does anybody really
understand it?
Like faces upon an iceberg melting  ... the inbetween this being born and
dying stuff ... bobbing on the surface of a cold extreme ... like a
coldwater ice cap ... and all these things ... in a world of polluted water
the ice caps are bigger news than uranium will ever be!  And the news dies a
hard death ... the ticket eventually gets used, then it shows its nostalgic
worthlessness soon afterwards
... you know what i mean ?  HUNH?  It's about being moved ... while trails
of paper and plastic litter the avenues with benign disappoints for the
evening ... there is no hot water ... there are no butter tarts ... the
television didn't withstand it's two storey fall ...
Your Neighbour who now has a real gig ... is practising his Gibson too close
to the speakers ...
Feedback does lack forsight if it's forsight you are looking for but if you
are looking for a little dissonance, craving a little frequency rush!  Then
he now has radicalized himself into an active participant of the Electra
Temporal Lobe Sideshow for the UNSUBLIMATED.
So Home then is somewhere else ...  you mean to say, don't you?  Hell!  Who
knows where Home is!  Home is in everything and everywhere, and where ever
you are,
you can be at home in any location on the earth, you can feel quite at home,
quite at
peace anywhere, even when you are leaving it!
Strange breathing impregnates the night.  The daylight stays inside.
It refuses to dispense.  Watching all of its thoughts.  Not one
passes by without consent.  I can see you plain as day,
he mumbles.  I got you in my sight.  I can see you.  Lean a little closer!
The daylight breaks each time he opens his eyes ... the sand a coarse
reminder of all the names of his past ... like lines along a green circuit
board with gold soldered pieces and the sun's reflection ... the browning
skin of his thinning body ... how long has he lay waste here in the sand ...
how many moons has the dawn of day seen ... waning in the twilight passing
into ... spinning in the grand emptiness ... as small and as light as
particles of dust ...
He moves slowly toward a window in the bamboo hut ... shakes the sand off
the edges of the map ... smells the air and lights a pipe.  The map in my
hand is a dream, he says.  The dream is a metaphor for daylight.  He lights
the map.  Sets it on fire and it burns to a blackness that now only the
sand understands.
Now nobody knows! , he says ...   even the hardest of rocks turn to sand.
Though if you look a little closer you can see that they are all beautiful
The light refracts and deflects ... the day is eager.  The sun bursts
through.  It is a bounty of  daylight in each crystal.  Enough stone to
tip a scale into the colours of the moon.