Poem: Garland Of Boos.


On this papier-mâché stage,
Love’s no welcome audience
no sanguine comic can rouse its tentacles
to clarity’s lips,
part them with wild furies of applause
for, the humour is usually so benign
even the comic doesn’t get it.
To most, in this dim-lighted den,
love is a ghoul—
a fiendish whirling
that passes you past prior notice,
with whipping slather roping from its gaping
cavern of a mouth
swallowing whole, all fools that rush in;
Like honey from a broken comb—
it baits—
it’s a superstitious innocent,
a charmer dwelling on all things past,
hinting only on what’s to come;
It’s a duplication of intensity
a shadowy replica of the silhouette of human jonesing;
the basis, the essence, the reason, the answer
to the unasked question
the guess, the intuition, the riddle, the puzzle
with blunt-edged jigsaws—
the everything around which nothing is certain—
A good joke with an unfinishable punchline.


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