The idylls of the fool – 5 sonnets and a coda.
Nothing
is convenient, and there is never
A
good time to be sacrificed to the gods
Of
fame’s indifferent gluttony. As
The
epitome of the discardable,
I’m
not for recycling, a wrapper
For
a sweet invented by pacifists,
Now
owned by war-makers.
I
cavort in a high-ceilinged vacuum,
A
dying king’s court is barely ideal
For
hijinks. Still, playful idolatries,
Sidelong
glances, petty affairs
Pass
the time between numb life
And
a lavish funeral ceremony
That
will bankrupt the next potentate.
This
kingdom buries their entertainers
With
the pharaoh, I’m date-stamped,
And
due for a tomb without song.
Strumming
my lyre, winking at a princess,
Few
if any spy my misfortunes,
Being
squat, secondary, an epiphenomenon.
You
may think being a cut-up cut-rate
Trickster
in motley is a good gig,
Complete
with belled cap for a wig,
As
I take innumerable swigs of mead,
Have
little need for a new role,
But
since my Ulysses lolls half-lifeless
On
his carved marble throne
Like
tyrant winter had come early to tie
The
spring, let us sing of the decline
Of
jolly times, and tropic climes,
For
a moribund kingdom is un-droll.
Meanwhile,
my gold pile is as much
Use
as a eunuch in a queen-sized bed, how to
Buy
back those days when I was fab?
The
courtiers now are lean, drab, dull;
Useless
work takes its toll. We
Should
be sailing West, or wherever else
Risk
sharpens its claws, seeking out laws
To
test; we should be scaling crags
To
perforate giant nests, to steal eggs
Golden,
rare, unimaginably potent.
It
is never too late to steal away,
When
the tide is prepared to bear
The
crew to illustrious vagabond days
Without
bonded women, dreams or delay –
Days
of riveted action, aroused with instant
Purpose,
the rigor of having to do and be.
The
having no time to think, just time to see
That
what gets done is heroism defined.
Such
journeying is uppermost in my mind
As
I reflect on my liquidised, drifting, lord.
Oh,
how I’d love to throw his piqued chains off,
And
bundle him back onboard, for one final
Crazy
feast at the high table of mythmaking seas!
Give
me uncertain nights, unknown weeks,
To
a long-expected peaked doom foretold,
Certain
as school exams or witless lays.
The
old bones of even magisterial kings creak,
But
as his eyes meet mine over the cracked rim
Of
his overwrought goblet, I can recognise
A
signal, even now, to me, his first, best, bard –
Companion
still, not gone are the glories –
His
wink commands me to plan a last foray,
Hurrah
for the escape that defeats death’s doldrums,
We
both flee to a future, as panjandrums undulate
To
the banging of godless, lazy, imponderable drums.
Only
disturb the play! Tear the costumes hard!
Aside,
pigeons! Conventional hours obey idiocy.
It
is a long madness we eagles choose to assay.
Art’s
more interesting if rules bend astray!
The
sun is sinking nearby villainous behemoths,
A
debatably divine abyss, fusing with an occult sigil
That
glistens in half-light, lustrous chaos of beyond
What
is purely earth-bound, further than testing oceans!
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