Gibberibberibberish

I’ve come too late to so long a road. The clock a tocking time-bomb in my head, an incessant chipmunk in a box, how he mocks the time and sucks it dry with every tic - lifeblood leached bone dry. The succubus smirking in the corner traces lascivious lines along the sphinx’s chin, and shirks my eyes – the more masks I hide behind, oh, how the nakedness grows. And that, the cuckoo stuck out on time’s tongue coos, is her cue.

On the left, an ash, on the right, a false cedar, and like that bird I don’t belong. I do not long for that I cannot comprehend. How might I crave that which lay beyond my ken? Yet, you long for it passionately, for me, despite my naiveté. There is a worth, a hidden currency, you must advertise until I buy everything you believe, an entire world. Until it’s no longer I you wish to see, to complete, but an inner unease. You are no confidant, no comrade in arms, but a politician, a solicitor, a hawker, an evangelist of personal priority. Can you understand I’m fine without your stamp of happiness superimposed over me?

I traded the knowing of eden for that of vulnerability. A minotaur reads an artist’s empty book, tabula rose, full of blank red pages ; Cyclops and Odin discover parallax, while Mary is a little lamb with Circe ; Loki starts a charity, and Ophelia and Virginia Woolf discuss Poseidon’s poetry ; Pluto and Descartes prattle on most amiably, while Plato makes finger-shapes into monster shadows on the walls. And I sip at my steaming tea, contemplating all this sophistry, and ask if everything always crashes like a dam, bursting out so violently, or whether revolution can happen quietly, while the Christ-child sleeps.

 Am I one of them? Oh, most definitely - my heart is a revolutionary, and my soul a sleeping dragon, and my mind is a child, holding tight onto a balloon string and rubbing the bellies of clouds, tipping a hat at the mountains, and scoffing at the smallness of everything.