Afternoon sun descends into haze,
mellowing. Those who make dogmas
for poetry are bawling for help to escape
while hungry scribbloid spiders crawl out
of their polish-heady woodwork.
'If it floats, it's a boat,' joked Argus.
Argos, stop barking, good, blind dog.
We dream, therefore we seem, it seems;
we caulk those seams, somehow. Build it!
Build it first, then see how you got
so lucky, the prototype leading.
[Fat mandibles jump!] Oops! A dogma!
Oops! A spider! Oops! There you go.
Always it is humour bubbles up
from the wine-dark wave-strewn wreckage.
[Exit, pursued by a bubbling spider.]
One green-bottle, basking on a wall...
while the shipbuilders build, then sail
their odd craft to undiscovered lands.
For the world is not as round, Beloved,
as a billiard ball to these sailors,
nor the universe isomorphic to
voyagers of sorrows and grievings,
helices, epicycles on the CMB,
dark flow, bright stream of galaxies
tugged to the horizon of a Bifrost.
...
YOU ARE READING
Bare Shouldered
Poetry"The difference of high Sensations with and without knowledge appears to me this - in the latter case we are falling continually ten thousand fathoms deep and being blown up again without wings and with all [the] horror of a bare shouldered Creature...
