Saturday, November 13, 2010

Isn't He A Clever Little Fellow?

At The Academy for Clever Little Fellows
I chanced upon a volume penned by Sartre
And though the tongue that served Rimbaud
So nobly was my foe, I slit the leaves asunder
With a scalpel, gazing as they fell beyond my grasp

Wandered down linguistic cul-de-sacs and alleyways
Like a man who dreams he’s dreamt by someone else
Mille-feuille and espresso in comparison
To the precious traps the author had designed
Cleverness extended to sublime absurdity
Beating up on reason 'til it bled
Commandeering logic to sabotage itself
Ripped away its reason to exist
Tied me into endless nots
Resembling Moebius strips

Deliciously delighted, appalled and quite amazed
Society would tolerate such shameless decadence
I sucked with desperate hunger on intellectualism
Like a nipple leaking menthol-scented morphine
Fell spellbound, enraptured through
Smug, incomprehensible goo

I thought thought was a landscape I could live in
Night sky free of solid matter
Nothing to touch or be touched by
Thought blew through the years that followed
Dry wind washing over barren silent dunes

The greatest gift that thinking ever gave me
Was the means to learn that thinking would betray me
But that didn’t happen until I was so good at it
I’d learned how to never feel a thing

Alistair McHarg

Click On Image To Enlarge


No comments:

Post a Comment