For the intellect on its own

    cannot

Seriously cannot

      explain away all the shocks and humiliations of

   experience

                                                   

                                                   

        And it is those that will live

                                                   

        who possess the hope

       Born of instinctual longing

          though they be the ones

            to suffer the barbs of life the keenest

                                                  

                                                            Does the aquired stillness

                                                 

                                                                 Of subordination

                                       

                                                                  serve to suffice

                                                   For the roar of the unconquerable ocean

                                                           beneath your mortal feet?

The irony that kills the onlooker

is how an actor is required

in an imaginary situation

to speak the truth

Using someone else's words

in borrowed clothing

to a complete stranger

While in everyday life the pursuit of truth

is seen as ridiculous

and emoting in public

as abhorrent

For life at its core

is a moving growing

flickering thing

It flashes its moods; dark and light

It moves and morphs

burns and blows its way

From birth to death

eternal serenity is for a dead man

Or woman

I can see no other way

Consciously blocking out the thousandfold daily

veiled attacks

on her spirit and senses

And never underestimating the cruelty of the attackers

Nor the sedantry worlds

that lie yet unexplored within

We thus have an entire culture

devoted to the worshipping

of the aesthetic value

of shapely eyes, noses and eardrums

as if they were lifeless objets d'art

While the art sections of libraries

remain all but empty.

                                                  
                                                    And in its place

                                              Is left a look of absence

                                                    something real

                                               something forgotten

                                            From a veritable ocean

                                              to a handful of dust

                                                      
                                                      Until the body is no longer able

                                                              To inhale that scent

                                                            of physical immediacy

                                                      That sends the artist dreaming.