A finger to form
as I conform — for shame!
— deform, for fame,
and reform the name of the game.
Fear not the reaper, O pen,
expend yourself and lend yourself to endless rendering
of time and of space
with rhyming that races and paces
trips over its laces
to think my thoughts,
to feel my foughts,
to know my noughts,
and to see my soughts.
Subsist in my substance, Dear pen,
soak in the satisfying succulence of synchronisation,
say as I see, and sign as I sigh, with the seal of my mind.
They’ll tell us we don’t belong together,
That rules are there for a reason,
That what we have will come untethered,
And won’t outlive the season.
But that’s boring.
Worse! That’s dishonest!
I want to feel and let feel,
to frolic through real and true fields
by finely timed rhymes — inflexible to the actual nature of the sentiment.
subjectivity of reality
and the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit
because the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit beats the shitload of rigid sensitivity –
TomFuckery we’re free!
Let us excrete our imaginations through the wounds in our sixth fingers onto the page and be proud of it — Sing loudly of it — Up Up into the clouds with it! Until its stench unwrenches the hinges of heaven and the angels themselves descend into our madness and sadness and gladness and enter into our unreality as we live it
— Unified by our isolation
— Comforted by our desolation
— Confused by our information
and — Damned by each new salvation.
Now, pen of my neighbour, answer me this. How can you translate such incoherence into such strict regulation? I know not if to marvel or to mock you. For a feat of masterful wordsmithing? Or sheer misguided naivety …
O pen of my own
O love of my life
O shoe of my hoof
O point of my horns
O fire of my body
O black of my soul
O light of my eyes
O dark of my mouth
When others’ flowers bloom and grow,
Forget me not.
When others’ lives are gloom and snow,
Betray me not.
When others’ pens are truth for them or lie-filled dens or camera lens or photoshopped Big Bens purporting to portray the real life lived in London
Lie to me not.
O pen of my being and lens of my seeing,
Disguise me not.