fiddleback

I wrote this bit of mad­ness in August 2009, while I was in acute phys­i­cal agony edged out but not over­come by a quan­ti­ty of nar­cot­ic anal­gesics that might send a less desen­si­tized soul to spade out his grave. Those hours of ruin have run. How­ev­er, their residu­um is weird­ly appeal­ing in rec­ol­lec­tion. The verse has been revised after sev­en years col­lect­ing dust.

i should like to cas­cade across the sun­ny fields of elysium
there beneath the light spring­ing from the shin­ing trees
nour­ished by the sea i will wait
clean and ablut­ed i will wait
untaint­ed by bar­bar­ic venal­i­ty i will wait
for sat­urn enthroned above
adorned with cir­clets and gar­lands of flora
then per­haps i will flut­ter through the mead­ows of asphodel
where perse­phone might meet me on my way
that i might eat of the blos­soms that sus­tain the dead

with thale i will rest my bones against the ruinous
heaps of ion­ic splen­dor that wind along the sacred way
with phi­lo i will stand an embas­sage betwixt greek and jew
sto­ic and pharisee
rea­son and revelation
with her­a­cli­tus i will weep and stand in the riv­er styx
or acheron as charon pass­es by
and know that not even their murky depths are static
with dem­ocri­tus and leu­cip­pus i will atom­ize the underworld
indivisible
infinite
indestructable
ever moving
with pliny i will be cer­tain that noth­ing is certain
and with plutarch i will admit that music if it seek harmony
must inves­ti­gate discord

socrates will meet me then beneath the canopy of the firmament
and we will sip the cool­ing coni­um maculatum
and cor­rupt unblem­ished youth with thoughts
we will pray for mad­ness that we may know truth
with pla­to i will mut­ter that friends have no dissent
that every pos­ses­sion and every pur­suit is evil
if not worked out in virtue
with dio­genes i will cyn­i­cal­ly conspire
to know the art of slav­ery and bark and live in a pot
and grouse to the passer­by that they hin­der the sun
with aris­to­tle i will mark the absurdity
the absur­di­ty that a man ought
ought to be ashamed of being unable to defend himself
with his limbs
with him i will manip­u­late speech and embell­ish reason
i will per­suade the mass­es and man­age the mob
i will enlight­en the igno­rant and dis­sem­ble the proud
i will cast an eye to heav­en but place my feet in hell
with seneca i will leech three hun­dred mil­lion sesterces
with­in the space of four years and let my wrists in my hot water
and with cato i will try
try to be vir bonus dicen­di peritus

am i one with the cynics
one with the stoics
one with the epicureans
one with the eclectics
one with the scholastics
one with the mystics
am i an anglo or a papist
should i don the garb of richard ap meurig
a welsh­man and list into a drunk­en daze
a colony of the king
a char­tered land

by pre­scrip­tion i drink laudanum
my doc­tor is wise
my chemist takes payment

thoughts trou­ble me
they swirl with­in my skull
i drink in metaphysics
i am onto­log­i­cal­ly drunk
befuddled

am I
are you

the epis­te­mologs pound upon the doors of the mansion
ravenous

our con­cep­tu­al schemes
tumble
tumble
tumble
TUMBLE
and meet their end

for what is
is it not
is it tomorrow
or yesterday
what is time
is time
i did not mea­sure the world
but then there is a cer­tain coun­ter­fac­tu­al definiteness

why

it is a good ques­tion not eas­i­ly answered
what is an answer
anoth­er question

i should like to cas­cade across the sun­ny fields of elysium
then per­haps i will flut­ter through the mead­ows of asphodel
i belong in aspho­del but I will not make my end there

no

i will bend in bold fear before the clement seat
and i will be test­ed by fire
will i be right­eous and will i be free
WHOSE love pos­sess­es me if not HIS
i am
i think i am
because i think HE is
and i am part of HIM
i think

i am
a fault finding
capi­tious critic
my rose-col­ored spec­ta­cles have been removed and snapped
in twain and crushed and trod­den on and liquified
in the bow­els of the dank, dark­est, dirge­ful earth

i would give ten guineas to find out which one of my neighbours
pur­loined the lid of my rub­bish bin and replaced it with a split infinitive

chil­dren are born into mis­ery and a slav­ish existence
live in fear
die in stor­gic agony
famil­iar­i­ty breeds contempt

it is all in latin
although per­haps it should be greek
or maybe hebra­ic aramaic
with plen­teous respon­so­ri­als and poly­phon­ic euphorials
the thu­rifer is a secret freemason
but it is all okay because it is done
done in a fiddleback
the fol­ly of a fiddleback