FOR MISS MARJORAM BUTTERWORTH
I can't avoid the confessional here, all this ragged stuff
hanging out of my mouth and arms, like the famed
scarecrow of Oz itself. I want to run like a Kennedy,
arms a'kimbo, down some flaming street, afire with
all Dad's money. Presidents and Kings alike, thieves
and masters together. I want to sit on a throne like
the Emir of Scat, sneering and just staring out. Camels
and the boys from muscatel, bringing me wine and
women and song. Atop my minaret, another song
or praise emits from nowhere. My back is always
tired and my legs hurt, eyes are blinkered and
forearms sore. Why then, this life? Why, and
what for? I want to call in my secretary to take
down this note : allow me, my minions, to tell you
all this. I am resigned to my fate, and I know you'll
agree. Take the streets of this city and this village
from me. I want to rest here in my own heart's
oasis. If you follow my waters to the source of
their strength you'll find only love and forgiveness
there, bold and raging and gushing from rock.
No comments:
Post a Comment