Mark Heathcote (22/03/66 / Manchester)
An ocean without parameters
What is this Eden they all talk of?
Who can recall that old proverb?
A bird in the hand,
Take these humble, beginnings...
Isn’t the throbbing of a breast?
A fire brand: the brocades, broach?
A flower, burning with; hot desire.
What could be more meaningful?
What is meaning? The meaning…
Without; time or place?
Like a musical-box, without music.
Or an ocean without parameters,
What is this driftwood, existence?
…Life without end: without death.
Without meter or rhyme!
Surely, heaven has no sustenance.
As subsidence, only creates gluttony.
‘It’s endless, unquenchable, greed’.
Surely our appetites wouldn’t exceed...
Their entire confounded constraints.
And, then what non mortal loathing’s…
Would we be, in this Garden of Eden?
Dreamed; unpardonable, and yet free.
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