If gambling is the optimist’s marmalade, as some limey
once squeezed, then breathing is an ass’s vice, though
there’s no sense toasting ether this close to breakfast.
As a War Office once warned us: shit comes in shifts,
incidents dent, ink can think, chickens lurk, larks jerk over
the metal petals, downed drownings, rubber subversions.
But given the terns, can we ever really tire of life?
Sweet Nothing, hope not — elsewise what comfort?
Passion of the mantis, harmony of some nimbus spat?
Dig for meaning and watch the vowels turn to trowels.
My point? Napping surely, yet so sharply against my
sternum I’m not sure I want to push things further.
This is the way it always ends: no bang, all wimple.
Given what could be, what is is suddenly bearable.
You say potato, I say potentate: contrarian,
vulgarian, botching a denouement.
Kevin Connolly holds the vegemite.
Published On: June 21, 2010
Permanent Location: http://www.forgetmagazine.com/100621d.htm