Tinkerer and furious blinker,
oil and gas and lubricant and metal
shavings have rooms thick with anything but
oxygen. The heat is color, the nuts
turned and broken with a jagged molar as the
Engineer's lost his wrench, his driver,
his shirt's embossed with a patterned name,
his girth's glossed over as his hand's tame
the machine at hand 'it's a
little run down, but ain't it grand!'
Protagonist, have you any intent to
change the scene, what say you?
'Not really mate, the rent is due, if
I leave this job, who'll pay me, you?'
I'd have no mind to do so but my talent
is wasted describing your sweat and
if I abet you in mediocrity my
conscience'd seethe, so here, a few guinea.
'Thanks mate, that's real generous.'
… and cavernous heights compressed to
concrete, alas! the guilt, please be
discreet. I'm not the sort to pay
your kind, you common folk, though
noble, mind.
'I try to keep humble.'
and you mumble too, come squat,
stout man, we've much to do.
'Where're we goin? What's the plan?'
Don't worry your brow or furrow my man,
the world is endless, to you at least,
walk so far west you're too far east,
and the least concern is hunger and thirst
'that's alright anyway, had a germany sausage earlier'
… please
Engineer, I beg you, try, have cold meats
or hot meats on wheat or rye,
with mustard, with luster, devour and
pine
'Oh I get it man, you're trying to
rhyme!'
Piercing, scathing, your wit is divine,
positively excavatory
'With a squeeze of lime.'
…
' “With cold meats and hot meats,” and
lettuce and tumatas and spinach.'
You're trampling my metre, please let
me finish.
'suit yourself mate just tryna help.'
Look around your person, abounding
and flatter your eyes with the fact
you see and factor your being to mine and
me, to see these plateaus and tattered
clothes, this city, prithee, isn't it
freeing?
'Not half bad now that you mention it.'
Are you not in awe of beauty?
'I'm in awe of that bird's arse is what'
...okay, okay, we shall take this as
example. Observe her frame, ample and
game, would you not like to tame or
trample?
'What's your meanin?'
My meaning, my character, is that
awe of arse IS awe of the world,
the seductive curve of flesh in pearl
is caught in the rump of this
fleshy girl, walk and watch as her
hips sway and envision her body
fall as you lay, her form and yours
strain the springs, imagine, my friend,
what joy it brings!
'True, but I don't know her, what
should I do?'
Observe or approach, whiche'r you'd
prefer, look on or attempt to
submerge yourself in fur.
'I'm not really into bush, mate.'
T'would be brave to hope she's shaved
but if not do not copulate.
'You're talkin about her as if she's
not a person, what if she's nice?'
Then see whatever goodness to you would
suffice.
'What dya mean?'
Well, were she kind and were she
yours, these things you adore, are they
anything more than your preferences?
reference this: an arab loves obedience,
subservience, but you, fine fellow, love
passion, convenience, no dowry, no ceremony,
you love form, he loves hegemony, and
such a man would hate such a
free-spirited, unlimited lust, and so,
by extension, would hate her you trust.
'Guess so, sounds like a cunt.'
Though to him you are too.
'Listen mate, I don't want any
trouble, keep your opinions to yuself.'
Precisely, incisively, I couldn't have
said it better or in so few words,
I charm you but throw off these
fetters and listen, and thus be heard.
If not opinion and perspective
from what stem your views?
If not emotional reaction, physical
satisfaction, subtraction of the disapproved
or redaction 'til the balance moves, what
else is there than your yea or
nay? Is what you like true?
Is what you want right? And does
what you like like you? And is not
want all but trite? What difference
is there between want and truth,
preference and objective, inclination
and reason, comfort and distaste,
ecstasy and shattering rigidity?
Between I, the eloquent, the
consistent, the uninspired and
intimate observer and you, the
simple, restricted, unconsidered and
automated hero? Tell me,
Engineer, what difference is there?
'Dunno. Gotta be though int there?'
If I could sigh until my lungs deflate,
I'd congratulate you on your
hypothesis, synthesis of all moralists,
idealists, realists and little shits
as naïve as they come, and,
though you'd recognise no names,
your argument, though briefer, is
much the same.
'Listen mate, you're actually
bringing me down, so I'mma give
you ya money back and carry on with
me job if you don't mind, much
appreciated for this, you're an alright fella
I just don't like bein talked down to.
Thanks anyway.'
You're welcome.
Am I surprised? Tired reprise of
recurring roles, predict and stroll, expecting
foul turns but none come, usual
unusual phrasing phasing the listener,
bitterer and bitterer 'til pits spit to
the floor and left to dry or germinate,
but am I alone moreso than one
who chooses professional isolation? Kept
cramp in a four-walled room and nuts
are cloth and boiler's loom and
sunless, thankless work's the life
and death and tomb of a man
who can scarcely spell his given
name, the machine at hand, never
tame, grand, unmanned, devoid of
fame, the faceless, nameless narrator
recites to an unpopulated emptiness
for all his time despite no echo,
no reply, no critique, no wallow,
no sty, nothing before me and
only past words to recall, bluffing
enthusiasm and only despair to
stall. But I am still surprised.
Where am I going? Have I a plan?
Reliance on other and clangorous
pan, defiance of other and clamour
is sham, shamelessly panting, you
can't, you can. My purpose
has left me as anyone's could,
a parent left pointless, their child
understood, (and instead a pet, visits
on christmas to repay the debt,)
but who would reach for an apparent
good when they can upset for a
real good? Narrative, culminative, I'm
unconvinced by rhetoric's tug, heartstrings?
heart beats! blood vessels shrug off, dilate,
'come on mate,' and I try to shrug,
but my shoulders feel heavy, tense
upon the levy, and a muggy mind
leaves bloody rind betwixt the cracks
of the jetty.
Flippant, bronzed, I walk along the
quay, stippling lapping 'gainst the child's
chalk and play, a street hound
circles an injured flapping bird as
a passerby throws crumb of rye and
ornithus is lured, canine growl, a
hum's a roar, two forward, one back,
four to the floor, a starving beak
lifts morsels to the gaping gullet 'til
a set of teeth clamp down upon
and air flows through like gills.
Entertained, littered feathers, I
return to I, calves contract, I
shan't distract, the pavement's
smooth, the pavement's cracked,
the pavement leads to trough
and hill, from hill to glade, from
glade to coast, what other beauty is
there but the beauty of design, I
have no given purpose now am
inclined to resign, but recline
instead, eat sand as you eat
bread, fracture shell and glass and
shit, drink seawater as you consume
it, abate your thirst as purposed
writ, grit in mouth, the ground
is wet, so feel free to split all
you get, they don't feel pain,
at least, not yet.
Callus digits play with rocks, sand
in my shoes soak my socks, but my
ensemble is made by me, not tailored
nor feld but materialised through
speaking, look back on mine
and read, think through, before
it's said, tis not, tis true, tis
singular, sightless, thoughtless page,
and you of whiteness hard to gauge,
our paradise of soft warm dust,
beneath our feet as physics must,
the light's your cage where
none's the norm, the shifting
ground's your debt and scorn,
what owe you, friend, to a
sea that's not, I talk to
myself in cot and grave.
Sophisticatedly inclined, narrate to deceive
and suffocate a story's moment's
fireside or cling to recess, blizzard,
hide! Suspend belief for a pause,
gentry, pressure, laughter, claws,
suffering and joyous thought,
the sentiment's sure, the words are
sought for, the birds all call in
separate songs, the birds fall in
the usual throngs, different
destinations fleeing different enemies,
but all these birds have hunger
to appease, have young to feed,
the urge to breed, the speed to
lead their families to clearer skies
and easier meals, but I am not
hungry, nor thirsty, not wanting,
my song and story is neither
distraction nor society, you stop
narrating and the pang and wind
go on, I'm quiet for a moment
and the end of me does beckon.
Myself and All, one outside,
no reason in which to reside.
But the Engineer, what does he do?
Heave the weight fro and to,
concrete flet, cushioned bed,
tessellate with cut stones, actions speak
and blood-let.
Our Engineer does what I say,
his manner, his project, departure
and pay, salary, dietary,
and, if I may, his weeping
first child and his final day.
An engineer it is but any could be,
saucier, scrap merchant, administrator,
death dealer, middle man, wyrm or fly, our
story's my story, my mouthpiece
bled dry, live happily or torturously,
I whim and decide, eat daintily
or from living flesh, concern
is derisive, this is one but
many shall(/have) pass(ed), I feel
like god but gods don't last,
nothing does, but the feeling of
god gives a bit of a buzz.
Are creeds such simple things like the clothes which a man can change at will and put on at will? Creeds are such for which people live for ages and ages.
- Mahatma Gandhi
But a poor creed will significantly shorten your life expectancy.
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