Sunday, 23 June 2013

this poet is a fake

in the mud i was formed,
in the dark, not Apollo's bud,
but Promethean bone - the rock
before the flesh made whole -

exploring events that occurred,
colouring them with the hurt
that was or was not
and thus shared amongst us all

and in the shadows my thoughts
congeal, draw close, fearful;
gain ascendancy through dealing
in sounds and lies

i say nothing factual -
how else to come to truth?-
the path is made with pebbles
of indiscriminate memory merged with falsehood

all prophets, all poets,
all who tell stories about their lives,
find the right way to explain themselves by mixing fact
and fiction and pronouncing them in the light

mother, these words are not from your hand,
not from the truth of our lives, rather, i find them
in the wrinkles, in the history of all the things
we never said or never heard

and i hope if father turns in his grave
it is only the better to listen
to the things
his son has to say

the son who has found
the best way to wipe away clay
is by telling stories
of how it might have been

this heart is on a train ride
to understanding,
it tells of false pain to explain
how it became human

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