In short I won't conclude the long string
short time bang thought won free cold hand
small child anguished old man. This is why
Such moments last and pains exist,
But subside to make room for greater things.
And nobody knows the way unless the way is
Known to all - Yes, not until we have all run
That endless gauntlett of pineapple strings,
Movie films, cricket bats and big TV's.
It's strange how things come full circle -
You know, when something seems so small and
Mundane, but returns much later, grinning
And brandishing fifty-odd knives,
Bekkoning you to follow into the darkness,
Sepulchre of blame, just to see if you can take it.
Can you hold out against the blank,
The pure blanched, supercooled, fractionally distilled
Grotesqueness, the exquisite pain, the red-tiled,
Ariel-bristling rooves of a true metropol -
The one that's forced up on us?
It's not a question of appropriation,
Relevence or fitting. It is not to be afraid
Of blasphemy or conflict.
Nor is it to stand challenged, or to challenge
Those who lack the ability and forsight to
Question our roles. No, dear friend.
It is HOPE.
For without HOPE, no desire, no struggle,
No conflicts and none of these misappropriations.
Perhaps the worst pain of all is the purest,
Simplest indication of our hopes
For no pain at all.