i don’t want to crawl into your head
it’s dark
and crowded in there …. and an awful lot
of work
for a
yea or nay.
there is no despair that cannot be requited by
a good stew:
chunks of beef
carrots
the irish potato …. sometimes you don’t have
beef
and make do with turkey;
it’s not a box of chocolates
it’s not a bag drifting with the wind,
our world.
when all hell breaks loose
hell will find us
in the most God-forsaken places on Earth. conundrums tell
us one thing: speaking is difficult.
you wouldn’t have-to, you know:
sit in a chair
smoke a pipe and count the minutes to your next chain-yanking.
i like that sometimes i can imagine you are compassionate
efforts are daunting this side of north:
to crawl into your head
to worship your bed
means i would have to lose mine ….
to sensibility
This feels like a poem with your tongue very fimly in your cheek.
At least that is the way I read it – and had a lot of fun doing so :)
David
oh yea i was being a sumpin or other :) but don’t you hate it when have written something that doesn’t require a lot of debate, yet someone is still trying to find chinks in the armor? nothing with you — of course — inclusion of “irish” with potato is a comfort thing to me. when you have a recipe passed down from mother to daughter that has nothing to do with exact amounts. each generation changing ingredients here or there to suit ….it’s like i never got a ‘recipe’ from my grandmother, but i am the only one on earth that can make her stew.