Inner Sense and Expedience

What I wanted to say

Was

All about the things that humans can do

All the cool stuff

Like

Music and art and I suppose love and language and expression

Even the songs I hate are valued by some

(And there’s a few of them)

(A few songs

And a few people)

And I constructed this

Sleepily

A sort of nursery-rhyme rhythm and iambicked-up party

Of rhyme and nods to the slime

And the sublime

There were verses and stanzas and assonances and shit

Lots of that kind of poeting wazzing

And spazzing about.

What I thought to say

Was

Here are some cool things humans do do

Great and groovy stuff

Like

Recipes using local ingredients and exporting those to others

Who try them and refine them, like say

Curry or Chinese spices or sort of Taginey stuff

(I had a tagine once.

I burnt and cracked it)

And I rolled over again

Dozily

And through my half-braining, 5am splutter and splurge

My grey goobutt carried on making these rhymes

As I climbed down to sleep

Then there were scenes and colours of black blood and gunk

Livers torn in two by hand grenades

Faces melted by radiation

What I saw I could not see

Were

All the shitty things humans can and have done

I mean, real bad stuff

Like

Exploding people’s eyes because they prayed

To  a different imaginary sky magician

(Invading and taking territory

All that shit)

I grunted at a dead

Baby

And I struggled to comprehend

What

All the fucking point of this consciousness

Was

Whether I was culpable,

Like

Who the fuck cares what the fuck one twat writes?
(?
?)

Thinking something without acting

Is

Worse or at least equal to a machete stroke

Or phlegm on the face of a

(insert your own racial epithet

Here, if you want)

Anyway, this poem, such as it

Was

Faded of course as the sun tickled my scalp

It tends to come up

Like

Every day anyway, somewhere. So these bombs

Or songs or achievements in science

(Or art, or mechanics, or anything

Really progressive)

Made me realise

Only

That whilst humans, like me I suppose, are

Concerned

With finding out How, What, Where

And When

There’s still no progress on this one shard I remember

From this sort of poem I was going to write

(Or an essay, I suppose, or graffiti

Or a T-shirt)

What I wondered about was
The eternal:

Why.