#1908 - self

 

1908

6.81

22.iii.25

self

 

loose wire somewhere

in a forest of cloud

 

after dreambrink

 

who how where why

 

trick of the light

or treat

 

good heart

the clock trained

 

brewing all this while

 

falling for the self

 

a slap up self

and on the fly

 

put up to it

by world about

peer pressure

 

coming down with a self

keeping it up

 

keeping the self up in the air

 

was always a juggle of masks

 

tempted to call it all one’s own work

 

then there is the -Ish

a nasty fairy

thinks nothing of your troubles

thinks of no one else

 

try it!

 

a little wobble on my axis

 

the underself

and the overarch

then beside one’s

and so on

 

sticky in the web

bearing up under the weight of the day

 

self medication indicated

 

deep in the bones

the old self again

arriving before I do

 

self evident

and satisfied

explanatory too

 

patched up with quotidian lists

the might of must

slink along, sidle up

pass bottle, bong

 

they say that you have to get over your own

there’s no doubt that the day is coming

 

self best before

and due to expire

what does it say on the can?

 

that’s the empty self, filled with to-do

tabula rasa cv

 

self we thought we knew

as mirrored in window glance

puffed up with having done

 

…could say we just happen to be

                   the people we are

though that was never quite it

 

‘the self’

dive in just here

and wouldn’t you know it?

 

the self won’t wash

disobeys the most obvious rules

 

where’s it from

this symbolic frolic?

 

like a pet poorly trained, who’ll you’ll blame

 

down, self!

fetch, self!

roll over

and why does the self lick?

 

... my indiscretion

the self – unburied bone

takes over

and it was there already

 

nostalgic too

 

makes blank of mind

 

the bird me

or any insect

 

self is solipsism

whistling just to be

 

peer in

do you see yourself?

 

and all these years I am

but once, a name waiting

in the all-because

and rudely fashioned thus

 

that’s the deep well of self

the gyre

the smoke to touch

 

you go back for more

self’s ‘cut and come again’

 

and now, in the last furlong you see

it’s a race against time

weather selfsame too

in the very treetops of

 

some undiscovered world in which

it’s lovely to be lost