Ching-Ching Old Marley

Dereck looked out from his Prius,

with a sense of indignity

at the malevolence all around him

Penning the woven words of woe and dispassionate despair, he waits,

for reason, for Godot?

~

"Sitting in my chair, stomach's over there —

Way beyond despair, disrepute, disparate.

and warm

and kind

but warm

and kind

are dead, without works, without sparks."

~

Colours align — but don't rhyme anymore

World of technicolour — neutralised; grey scaled

Der-eck—Dereck—he knows, he notices, he documents

But doesn't act.

Self-gratifying

ambivalence and dissociative apathy

Writes his tomes of Ptolemaic grandeur—without backbone

~

"I remember trees that had freedom to stretch out and touch,

to show their love and consideration for all that entered their realms.

But then the diggers, the loggers, the lumbers came—

Jacks of all trades, Jacks in murder. Trees remurdered

for paper products, a wide selection of accessories, and stationery."

~

E-coli e-coli—messing with my system

Erudite I not. Luddite I not

I shall bequeath the queen—the queen and I shall dine at three,

at three in a tree on the right land.

"The right land," you say—with dismay

Right. Right. Land. Good man, not bad. Who is good? Who is bad?

~

The lord is in his temple high, high above the profane and people

people called David and Frances, Frances and Francis, Flora and Fabian.

I spent the night writing a thesis in my head; woke — it was no more.

Dead on arrival.

Several hours to piece hypocritical analytics, loose tether.

~

Remember A Christmas Carol. Remember, Old Marley, misery guts.

"I wear the chin I forged in life!"

Chain. Not, chin.

"I made it link by link, yard by yard"

"I gartered it on of my own free will"

"and by my own free will I wore it"

Exactly.

~

"Woo-Hah!! Got You All In Check"

"When I step up in the place, I step correct."

"Put your hands where my eyes could see."

"Come on—break your neck"

~

Y'all know who you snappin' your neck to, breakin' your body to at the weekend.

Old stinky, muddy, deathly Marley—Ching-ching dem chains.

Ching-ching Old Marley. Not Bob. Old Marley. Not Bob. Bob—Bob Marley—

Could you be loved? Marley, could you be loved with the ching-chang of your chains?

Pass me the Courvoisier—ching-ching-ching,

~

Spirit—I know that I, like all men, must die—

but not having lived as I have;

Not alone, unmourned,

not so poor in heart.

As I was feeling brave and foolish after recording A Requiem to the Lordes of Poetry: Flap Your Giblets in the Wind, I went ahead and recorded this one too. Okay. There will be a recording coming soon. I screwed it up. I shall update it, when it be done.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: More cobweb cleaning. More dressed-up darkness and philosophical musings in the guise of ridiculous, inane ramblings of a madman. At least this time, the painting is at least thematically connected.

There are references to Busta Rhymes:

And Godot. Samuel Beckett and Busta Rhymes. United at last.

If you liked this, you probably would like this:

Three of my most beautiful pieces, as evidence that I actually do know what I am doing in this game we call "twitchy twitchy pen ink blot paper parchment delight."