Wholesale Soul Shortsale Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

WHOLESALE SOUL SHORTSALE

A sail – [b]rave paling, ailing – craving recognition from the dead sea mirror reflection of man’s insolent anonymity - not a pretty picture.

The world is both perpetual midwife to its own rebirth and sexton sextant to its interminate interment internment.

See lost, soul-searching, generations asea, spreadeagled across life’s down filled pillows. Dissarray surfs the billows, while sheet lightning offers offers an appropriate backdropp for the final act as bellows roar and smoke stacks pour before that final belch relieves them of motion, commotion, and an ocean of sensations most appreciated when most lacking or perceived to be needed as backing for stacking cards against the hand of fate - whose instead-fast finger beckon-beacons destiny with uncomfortably imperative urgency.

Down to Earth, with a new world’s birth pangs ever in flux beneath mental horizons of tomorrow’s and tomorrow’s and tomorrow’s workless masses aimlessly awaiting some mere telomere process program perpetually extending existence as experienced under traditional threescore years and ten life spans.

Carpe Diem’s drumbeat fleet attracts calling when all else lacks tangible existence, consistence, sustained commitment. No need to explain. It is plain all’s vain, none remain immune to Time’s tune, no intelligent design, no predefined plan, may refine the baseless fabric of self-tortured imaginations, save flailing, failing, falling – wholesale soul shortsale...

1 October 2005 - see source below A[s]sail


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A[s]sail


A sail –
brave paling, ailing -
on the dead sea mirror
of man’s anonymity, -
not a pretty picture!
The world is midwife
to its own rebirth
and sexton to its
own interment. A lost
generation spreadeagled
across the pillow of life,
asea, dissarray on the billows
while the bellows roar
and the smoke stacks pour
before that final belch
relieves them of motion.
With a new world still in flux
beneath the mental horizon of the workless masses,
Carpe Diem’s drum attracts
when all else lacks -
save flailing, failing -
a short sale...


Prose poem written 4 June 1992
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n.b. Source for: - Wholesale Soul Shortsale robi03_1312
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