That monkey on my back looks too much like me, perched up there on sharp
knees. Old man of the sea, is there no end to his pestering? He pulls
each ear to guide my steps and turn my path. He covers my eyes, each
hand a screen. All about, this foreign world is protean and mean. His
voice, thin and reedy, says: see what you may. I look along our pathless
paths and see flowers and nymphs, anemone. He removes is reedy fingers
and look: pestilence and pain. He leads me along flaking cliffs and
ambuscades. All that is illusion too. His other fingers hold my face,
and those he removes. We are in void of sea or space. He leers and
speaks: to get what you wish, first you must catch simian me. And though
he is all sharp elbows and stabbing knees, he's as hard to hold as
mercury. And I feel old and godlike, and I feel young and horribly free.
And what if what I would wish would be to catch and hold the beast? And
what if 'simian me' is not him but me. And what if I'm just turning on
myself, meaningless in a boiling sea?
No comments:
Post a Comment