(from) detachments – 1 & 2

  1. Cut

 

Bless my suffering

cut short, shorn

like lawn on long

summer days.

 

Tedious heaven.

 

These hours of suffering

are swathed

 

by an eternity

of days:

 

was, will be.

Bliss.

 

There’s no death

but how to tell it?

 

Last night was all one to me –

 

Whitman off his tree

gathering daisies

from the grave, I lay

there

 

with the voices, my own

mostly, whispering

the mind, random

happenings like

nothing I know;

a Padre Nostro;

word for word,

a Michelangelo;

no reason, you know.

 

I got up at 1 o’clock,

cut 3 lines on my arm,

and went to work.

 

desert, sea

 

One day I quit.

 

I’m sick of bodily demands –

having to eat

and go to the toilet.

The drudge of the supermarket

on a Thursday

and the radio

 

blows, always

the hum-drum tins

of beans on toast.

I’m not cynical.

Government is.

Advertising, radio:

the real world. The way our lives

are organized. I’m nothing

now,

but myself – the real me.

 

One day I quit

for the desert, sea,

wood; live long

for the mountains and the trees;

love, and soft

pillows, under one

a gun. Rain sun

rustic wheels,

animals; a boy

and girl. I’m not cynical.

Government is.

The real world.

May 2015

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3 thoughts on “(from) detachments – 1 & 2”

  1. thanks for digging this old one up, Dean. You had a poem about quitting… work, i think, before i wrote this, and the idea stuck; as did another poem you wrote – you’re at the gym, and you complain about the ‘stupid’ radio. So, i made use of that as well in part 2.

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