0364 Poetry Reads; Poetry Speaks

It’s like an adult version of a parlour game, isn’t it? a sorta cross between a single-handed game of patience and a crossword puzzle where the guy who set the puzzle is always a step at least ahead of you dammit and knows there’s a perfect solution only known to him, or Him so here I am, shuffling these black-and-white (well, kinda browny-maroon on this site) soundless things which are supposed to be sounds in my ear and mind which by mad optimism forever proved somewhat or totally wrong in experience are supposed to come out the other end into your ear and mind in a vaguely similar manner – allowing for the fact that if you’re of a critical cast then you’ll have a superior ear and mind to mine anyway so that’s a mess for a start and I suppose the same applies if you have an inferior - oh forget it so forget for the moment this creeping disorder of rather dumb black and white caterpillars making their humpy busy-legged but corporately slow progress across the page in a disorderly snaky line, arguing among themselves trying to remember (ah yes, Plato, trying to remember) like a Spanish bus-queue, whom they’re behind and whom they’re in front of if and when the bus comes, while they chatter in little groups among themselves – where was I, ah yes, forget the black-and-white on paper, and rhyme or not, and all that technical stuff which you’re not suppose to notice anyway and know that what I really want to do is take your two hands gently in mine and smiling, look you straight in the eye and say when all’s said and done and that may take a little time, and to coin a cliché which I’m not apologising for, but forget it’s supposed to be poetry and listen to my sincere voice saying isn’t it a wonderful world?