March Weather

Contain me, contain me, I
Would be publishable, I
Would be small and inky, I
Would plant here the seeds of a
Mode of being and become
Great. Start with death, that, though we
Grunt under it, happiest
Of facts (what other faith but
Cloys with your self pity?), then
Redescend the tunnel of
Sensation, quivering with
Spasms. You cannot pick up
An image and be it, it's
Maddening. (Love me for this,
I am brave: death is not the
Annihilation of the
Personality: life is.)
Lightly across smouldering
Memories hasten barefoot
Toward unconditional
Absolution for all that
Does not concur with this your
Straightjacket, your own arms bound
Against remissive gestures.
Strain toward ignorance of
Self, for that is your only
Dignity. Say what in my
Civilized naivety
I could lately not have said:
The solution to problems
Is to ignore them. Do I
Pirouette? Shall I be held
Still? And to what project? To
The psychiatrist I will
Give no ground, I will hold what
May not be mine, nor guess at
Its nature: reality
No longer really interests
Me, frustration's final grace.
Everything can be taken
Two ways: Up. Down. (Two keys in
This score:) Only decisions.
There are no decisions. The
Mind not a thing but an act,
Though "act", you seeWell. Quicksand.
I exonerate myself.
I exonerate myself.
Reduce the impact on me,
I would enjoy. Nothing is
Stable. Sex, impersonal,
Unidentifiable,
And when it comes knocking you
Can't quarrel with the shape it
Takes. Hold what ground? You know too
Much, you can't afford a
Personality. The whole
Effort takes more tact than that.
Tiger of wrath. Criminal.
They'll put you in a cage. I
Am in a cage! OK, think.
I worry about being
A less fortunate. How could
I bear the envy? Isn't,
Though, that other happiness
Accessible to all? Not
To you. Spring may yet destroy
You, wake your impatience with
Melancholy, so wait. Tear
Up your notes. Joy outstrips all
Formulae, and will recur.
In each of these, your phases,
Unsupported, you follow?
Clean. And then there's the moodless
Mood, backstage, in control. One's
Feelings on the john taken
Against one's feelings in the
Shower. You are a blot of
Mustard, an undigested
Crumb of cheese, your intestine
Plays you like a saxaphone
Until you are reduced to
Believing in miracles.
Hang in. The trouble starts when
You stop trusting your charm. Run
The whole bluff, go ahead. You
Don't want to know who you are
(What an intolerable
Burden that would be), for to
Know nothing is ecstasy,
Though granted not sustaining.
A gentle and erotic
Life, to speak tenderly, at
One with your trajectory,
Although to live is to be mad  
You do see that. A madness
Without glamour, an unrest,
An incapability
Of exhaustion. Unclean. Let
Us not transcend life, let us
Look into its mirror and
Go fucking nuts. Let us take
Life on its terms, if such can
Be deduced, like a poem.
The beyond but mirrors life,
The wonder, the completion
(Come on, now, bring it on), for
Is goodness not moving? Can
You help but betray it? No,
Forget that. Your being has
More import than your art. I
Can't keep track of what I am
Or what I feel. I squander.
On the other hand, no steps
Need be taken. Are you with
Me? Don't try to grab your soul,
If you like. Your body too
Knows more than you. Truth hard to
Come by, overrated. A
Low tolerance for crap is
The most you have. Between these
Epistemological
Horns, the charging beast's forehead
Bouncing back your shells of Faith!
Innocence! Joy! I will kill
You if I catch you. Come here.
Don't you trust me? I cannot
Contain myself but I can
Contain the world, in a way.
I can't get it right. Let slide.
Pleasure and amusement, the
Only discipline left. How
I spent my time on Earth. This
Is the Arc de Triomphe. The
Future is not as closed as
It looks. You were not meant to
Be prophetic. Forget your
Body's decay, your dramas
Of digestion, your dreary
Hypnosis. Walk another
Line. Dare to be shallow. Spurn
Especially the traps of
Sentimentality, the
Forsaken's arguments, the
Entertainer's ingenious
Ways of injuring you. Is
Not the naked spectacle
Sufficiently heartbreaking?
Speak gently. All suffices.
Something to believe in would
Compromise the perfection
Of your faith. Cultivate the
Principle of minimal
Effort. You can't become real
Anyway, you've tried that. And
Thank you. Your hysterical
Attempt has persuaded me.
You will never contain me.

Also by Robert MacLean, the "Toby" books,
Will You Please Fuck Off? at Amazon USAmazon UKAmazon FRAmazon DEAmazonITAmazonES and Smashwords;
Foreign Matter at Amazon USAmazon UKAmazon FRAmazon DEAmazonITAmazonES and Smashwords; 
Total Moisture at Amazon USAmazon UKAmazon FRAmazon DEAmazonITAmazonES and Smashwords; 
and these, too,
Mortal Coil: A Comedy of Corpses at Amazon USAmazon UKAmazon FRAmazon DE, AmazonIT and AmazonES;
The President's Palm Reader: A Washington Comedy at Amazon USAmazon UKAmazon FRAmazon DEAmazonIT and AmazonES; and
Greek Island Murder at Amazon USAmazon UKAmazon FRAmazon DEAmazon IT and Amazon ES.

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