some grow crops and watch the weather.
Others dance or dress delightfully, speak
or sing to crowds of strangers. A number
paint or sculpt or play an instrument. Some
accumulate pathologically. I know many
who operate machines and sell their labour.
Manufacture
thoughts and feelings. Trim their toenails
experimentally.
Smell amazing.
A lover loves without distinction. The best
of them are kind and generous. I know this
from experience.
The least remain suspicious
of any difference. We hide or huddle.
Fretful.
Lament an absence. Live in mirrors.
Reflect and jump, competitively. A
minority fall victim to haemorrhoids.
They don’t do anal.
Starve themselves obsessively. Some
like biscuits more than people. But
everyone responds to words and pictures.
We survive on scraps, on bits and pieces.
The Hit Parade and Abba.
Queen. Bananarama. Lies and favours.
We fight oppression,
or count our blessings.
It could be worse.
It could be cancer.
We all consume then die of something.
I know a man who makes equations. A
woman bathes him, provides excuses.
He once was good
but became distracted. Someone
should remember him as different.
Useful.
Of all the choices made available
Poetry, remains the best for explanations.
.
Steven Taylor
.