Poetry / Wake, work, sleep

The daily routine and palette of flavour and taste of the proud proletariat and the bashful bourgeois can tell through hasty taste
You much about the temperament and taste of the individual

Wake work sleep

In this way we survey all that stood on these fields before us
And make judgements on their motives, estimates on their ambitions

Wake work sleep

The calories they took in like orphans, the hours they fretted
Over neighbourly calls of Xeroxed wisdom and second-hand insight

Wake work sleep

The miles they travelled in pursuit of their desires, the dreams that
Left them disquieted, reminded them of what they once aspired to

Wake work sleep

But ants have rhythm, and so do we – the constant tattoo of the drum, did it
Bring a ponderous smile to their face (did their face split open like a ripe melon)

Wake work sleep

Was their census completed punctually, or stabbed in regret, as the ibis and
That pesky egret stain like memories in the seven seas – did they regularly bathe?

Wake work sleep

Did they arrive at their destination always five minutes late? Or early,
Did they relish the crisp brisk frisk of the morning air – did they pray?

Wake work sleep

Did they stand on the gritty mutters in soupy gutters, did eyelids flutter
Or snigger at the pale hands shaking, was there remorse, or not?

Wake work sleep

Did they fix only what was broken, and will we try to remember them?
(Or did they maintain the overall significance of a teapot.) Were they proud?

Wake work sleep

Did they make you laugh or smile or envy a prisoner or do the dishes or
Count the remnant ashes in the tray? (Did you grumble at such enforcement)

Wake work sleep

If you ever commiserated through shiny yellow meadows
Or stabbed with your gaze through slimy green shadows
Threatened to save the duct tape on the windows
Understand our plight
If ever you’ve wondered where the garden has vanished to
Cursed the sludgy mirrors that we always adhered to
Wondered – just that, wondered hereto
Taste the air at night – it’s gone.

So cry out in mystical death throes to final wisdom from old crows
Plea to the all holy mundane and passion away your pain
Spread tears like peanut butter and never wish you were another
And in the end just stutter because it’s difficult

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