Oooooh a poem

 

Oh how I loved that

mirror

Oh how white I

was

Oh how satirical

was my in-

tent

Oh oh oh

 

Later, it was Tuesday

and Bukowski had popped over

for tea.

“Reference?” I

asked.

“Not for me thank you,” he replied

politely.

 

“Look at all those judges!” he said,

later.

And he was right.  There

they were.

“What

are they doing?” we asked.

Akala and Jimmy Pursey and George and Ringo

and Naomi and Sylvia and Persephone and Alice

and Thon and Ka and Jo/e and Shon

and Chinua and Ocean and Gabriela and Anne

all shrugged.

“Authenticity!” we shouted.

 

For fuck’s sake.

 

 

Earlier, or later, valid experience met with

authentic voice

to produce crystal illustrations

both permissible

accessible

visible

and

unencumbered in any way

by the preposterous weight

of the past

(except insofar as that past constituted a valid and authentic means

by which the present could reasonably be understood and expressed

by those that either or believe themselves to

emerge from that past)

 

Meanwhile

trouble brewed

in a cauldron especially designed for the purpose

 

 

“Let’s take a walk,” I suggested

and it was agreed.

 

 

Once we were back

refreshed

we were able to announce

to widespread delight, it must be said,

that we had indeed found

the middle ground.

It wasn’t as busy as it used to be

we said

but that’s ok

these things come and go.

In the end

after all

we’re not here for long

and it would be nicer all round

if we got along rather than

squabbled.

 

“I propose,”

said everyone

“that we have a nice cup of tea.”

And it was agreed.