Saturday, 11 December 2010

Where I'm from, or the baby, or an ode to Jack Kerouac (and plants in general).

I was loosed from the womb in Brighton,
and that is where I sat, squat;
it seems that life longs to frighten
the sitter with perpetual rot.
One grows like a sunflower
but never has the time
to clip his roots in that hour
in which the dirt of other chimes.

To be raised in one place is like dying
in the midst of a thousand faces;
but to live in the rime of a pining
is to be killed by a thousand faces.
But, alas, we are grown in the soil
of the fortuity of our homes;
we grow then have fold our petals
in the lessening richness of that throne.

Somewhere, there lives a walking flower -
he lives not by the sea.
He walks 'pon each roving hour
in his longing melancholy.
But if he only knew the richness
of his wearied circumstance,
he would long to walk for ever -
that walking, talking plant.

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