Nothing seems to move our governors to produce more regulations than when a new sense of freedom and possibility. Time has seen what it needs to see, and now time shall remove what it has grown tired of seeing. The great grand master, a poet of immensity, OMAR KHAYYAM has written in the ancient days, thus:
THE MOVING FINGER WRITES
AND HAVING WRIT
MOVES ON
NOR SHALL ALL OF YOUR
PIETY AND WIT
LURE IT BACK
TO CANCEL EVEN HALF A LINE
NOR ALL OF YOUR TEARS
WASH OUT A WORD OF IT.
…you may find these words in the master Khayyam’s RUBIAYAT.
ANIMISTIC ANIMAL:
YES,
I KNOW YOU SEE THE PANTHER.
BUT YOU SEE THE PANTHER
MAINLY SO THAT YOU DO
NOT HAVE TO SEE THE
LION.
IF YOUR BITTERNESS
BECOMES TOO GREAT
YOU’LL BE ASSIGNED
A LIFE AS SNAKES,
THOUGH THERE IS ALWAYS
A CHANCE THAT MALAISE
WILL GRANT, A SAINTED
SHOULDER TO
CRY ON.
AND SO REPELLED,
I WINK IN
EDNA’S PROPINQUITY,
WHAT WILL THEY EVER
THINK OF ME?
SHOULD THEY EVER FIND
OUT, THE BANK OF ME
AND LIKE FROSTBITE,
UNDERMINE THE RANK OF ME
DESPITE THE SWELL.
SO WE’LL SEE (OTHERWISE
I’M SURE YOU’LL SUE).
AND LIKEWISE IDENTIFY
THAT I DID IN FACT QUALIFY
AND PERHAPS TOO WELL,
TO CASH IN ALL MY FUTURES,
FOR SUTURES IN A GOLDEN EYE
INSIDE A BLOODLESS COUP.
The little bully poem:
OF COURSE,
I HEAR YOUR CHANTING.
FOR WHILE YOU ARE BUSY
UNDERMINING,
I LAY BENEATH YOU PANTING,
AND FERVENTLY REDESIGNING.
WHILE PICKING OUT THE SPLINTERS,
THAT COIL LIKE RATTLERS WITH
SPLATTERED BEADS, AFTER THE DEAD
WEIGHT OF MANY WINTERS.
SOME THERE ARE HIDING,
SICK WITH DISGUST,
LANCED BY RESIGNATION,
THOSE IN WHOM WE PLACE OUR TRUST,
TO SPOIL, THOUGH NOT TO WITHER US,
WITH ALL OF THEIR RIGOROUS
EXAMINATION,
AND BARELY MUTED PINING.
WE WERE MEANT TO BE PLACED NEXT
TO FIGURINES, THEIR FIGURES
ROBUST, VIGOROUS,
WHO STARCH THEIR
KNICKERS, STITCHED IN BASKETBALL
SEAMS, WHOSE PEPPER TEARDROPS
KNOW US
AND
DRAPES THE PORCELIN
WITH RESTRAINT,
SMEARED PROTOCOL
WITH A DAB
OF PAINT,
A DOLLOP OF
PANIC THAT
HAD TO BE SEEN.
IN THIS WE ARE IN SYNC.
I HAVE HAD MY SHINING
AND A FEW BETWEEN
AND PUNCH ABOVE
MY RANK.
WE CAME AS GREEN
AS THAT!
THAT EVEN GERBILS HATCHED
THEIR SCHEMES,
THEN LEFT THEIR FOLIAGE
AND VERBALS,
ENTRENCHED
AND
MATTED TO THE SCREEN.
NATURALLY,
DRENCHED,
I SET A PICK.
AND WHILE ROLLING MY ANKLE
THE REF ROLLED HIS EYES,
(THAT PRICK,
NO REAL SURPRISE.
‘GEE THANKS!’)
THEN IT COMES TO THE
END OF THE DREAM.
I AWAKEN LIKE A MOP
INDUCED TO ITS LENGTH,
THEN GRAB MY COCK
TO REDUCE ITS ANGST.
(and some ‘Juvenalia’- written when very young)
The cracks are peeling on your wall
The slippery elm outside does bend
Towards your sleek stiletto heel
Which, upon my cartilage bumps and grinds
I bid your service and do as told
Because I am not being watched
And because you are the type
I’ve died to bed in still of night
I break in sweat but to appease
And open wide my eager mouth
To drive my tongue around your breasts
Then rest my digits inside your nest
Scarce morality does not pertain
To creatures fondled by Adam’s lust
I hardly need your scolding words
I do what you daren’t, I seethe, you must
Tear away your gingham dress
If not but for a little while
Give yourself to yourself impress
And to labour bid goodbye
Your shadow is your blanket best
So let the angles of the light
Creep onto your beading skin
But save some dance for central night,
For one whose lover’s face is bold and bright
And then score tail, to tongue, to teeth, to crotch
Because you are not being watched.
O Resonance,
Like the stillness
Trapped beneath
The silhouette of the lake.
(and when I get to it,
I get to it late)
Like a swan song sung
By swooning swollen sands
Lend to me now the width
Of your hands, and what I’ll
Make of it will tax few demands,
Should I break more bread
Than I bake. And should I
Bleed more blood than I feed,
Then I’ll fatten the calves as
I succeed while watering
The hills on their lands,
Keeping it green
Keeping it lean
As so to seed more
Than to rake.
O Providence,
In whose murmurs contain
Quantum leaps of surprise
In whose whispers remain
The birthplace of resignation
Without reservation, detain
What is left of ravaged Mercury’s
Rainbow, splintered by defection.
What crippled grip
Holds now my erection?
What kind of shit is this,
Who regulates this action?
I was raised by leaping
Lizards in the lounges of satisfaction.
Whose tongues swallow forks
In the road, that slither
With reduction, whose landmines
Step like sharp destroyers,
Where Pericles sent his warriors:
Baptised ‘Cassius’,
Peeling me cautious
Corroding my caduceus,
Slamming me ferocious.
Why such annotated, trivial
Playing fields, why no traction?
Why was the woman in the muted mirror
Whose terror lay beyond her grasp, quite vicious,
Whose mind turns arrows into quills, suspicious?
Whose war paint smudged the bellowing faction
Which crackled beneath her feet like ash,
Allowed to wrestle the action, wet my brakes
while salting my sea foam before it crashed?
In fact, Life is dearer to snakes.
And not every Earl can court Confucius
Even with solutions intact,
And praised by illusion.
And now what couldn’t be clearer
As fate’s foul breath draws nearer
Is that millstones break
On millstones wearer.
I’d ask her to blow me
Though (by Jove’s arrest),
She’d just spoil it by pretending to know me.
An alliance that is no longer feeding anyone is not really an alliance.
COPYRIGHT SANANDA MAITREYA
MILANO 11th SEPTEMBER 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED