A Kitchen Lament

Pots, pans, preludes stacked neatly by the sink,
I sit down to write my pain in ink.
What is this breathing being I can’t see?
This dark face of humanity?

Solitude fights against isolation
Sickly gold child – adulation
A ticking clock starting again,
Brave slave boldly revolts in vain.

Tackle at once my tricky politic;
See not the faces of the quick – 
Nor judge the deserving dead so foully,
Screaming now, but always hourly.

I just saw human nature on a clod,
Gripped by some unseen hand, a God?
For mortals, nothing was this piece of dirt, 
But Ariadne’s pleasure hurt;

Not dreaming lines, whereby perception brings 
To light a world we cannot sing;
For their shadows have always been a show,
Yet from story false myths grow.

We attack and attach, until the end,
Temporal craft, temporal men.
When man cannot be trusted to be man,
We find one who can, a woman.

Whence creation, which I understand not –
Who understands the blank page?
– Because the mind brings the author order,
Like difference, yet stronger, broader,

Repeated, as though a machine, printed
Neat typeface, justly indented
Indicating to me that I exist,
I drift – creation masques chaos.

Our being gently bows its tilting head,
To enter now the saintly bed,
Would be relief, if I weren’t what I am:
A fake, a lie, a cheat, a sham. 

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