Ye gods, there’s no time! ‘It’s a figment, a not,’
ran the plot of the play in my head. Tossed me right
out of
my bed. ‘Instead all we’ve got steaming out
of the
pot is a lot of invincible rhyme,’ they said.
.
.
It turns
out the cosmos evinces one fashion upon
which the
whole business rolls – a dash and a curve
and a flash
and a swerve which begat what begat us:
our rhythm
and verve. Rhyme, not time. The pure
.
rhyme that
you’re, and the rhyme that I’m. Our
queries
are these: Please! Does anyone have
the
right rhyme? What rhyme do we get into bed?
What rhyme of the day or the night will we die?
What rhyme of the day or the night will we die?
.
It’s
about rhyme we knew. We now got the clue
that
rhyme waits for no woman or man: we’re
rushed into lissome departures: to watch archers
of tongue-in-cheek chic the way Emily Dickinson’s
.
rushed into lissome departures: to watch archers
of tongue-in-cheek chic the way Emily Dickinson’s
.
fits
fix her feats in a pique that permit us a peek into
genius
– where would we see so much heterogeneous
bliss of audacity anywhere other than in the dark
bliss of audacity anywhere other than in the dark
lark of
the mother of her heart’s inscrutable art?
.
But to
make it our own in a song not a groan –
that’s
what we’re roaming the cosmos to find –
that’s
the task here in the gloaming. No fiction
of time
anymore: now it’s all simultaneity – the sea
.
to the
shore, an orgy galore of the assonant word –
often
absurd, sometimes sublime, or a viable crime
out of
hell in the grime of an untended zoo of the fun
stuff
in you – there are rhymes for that, too:
.
amid all
of the rest of the worst and the best
of the
profligate need to make verse – eternally
busting
our asses with assonance without which
we
would not be. And oh dear, as you see, it appears
.
a great deal of the fate of the Cosmos has
fallen
to me. But soon, I am told, I’ll be granted
asylum.
Where I’ll strive to supply ‘em with rhymes such
as
“phylum” and “xylum”: rhymes that will keep
us alive.
.
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