tweed vest and hunting hat
identity poem
I once walked along Australian trellises and natives
where many nationalities merged into one evening song
sitting in a vast, overgrown garden
I pondered on the inevitability of growth
*
my parched and ripe lips yearned to learn
all the flimsy flavours found in a foreign, furrowed land
they became my mantra, my prayer, my recipe
how to live and what use to make of this new life that has been given to me
*
feeling as an Englishman must feel in New York
I became a European lost on English soil
who flew out of the nest once and upon return
was devoid of beginnings, but were they there in the first place?
*
I never thought about it until now, perhaps it’s a good time
to mention all fatty foods and holy offerings
it became blurry, it never meant so much
as pure existence based on the here and now
*
who is there to tell me what to think?
what or who should I believe in if it’s just me?
I can only put my life in my own hands
there is no one else who can rebuke my free will
*
in the meantime, I defeated all the vile sea creatures greedy to steal my personality
and after the melee I left them below two hundred feet
everyone felt sorry, the stupefied eyes showed more than the eyes of a martyr
(by the way, everyone wants us to be like that where I come from)
*
they couldn’t believe what they found under their too shallow skin
rotten seed scattered in a selfish field
and there I landed as light as a feather
no one can take that away from you once you settled
***
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About the Creator
Mescaline Brisset
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
so you want to be a writer? – Charles Bukowski
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