🚀 go-pugleaf

CONDICIL 

Schizophrenic, wrenched by two styles,
One a hack’s hired prose, I earn
My exile. I trudge this sickle, moonlit beach for miles,

Tan, burn
To slough off
This love of ocean that’s self-love.

To change your language you must change your life.

I cannot right old wrongs.
Waves tire of horizon and return.
Gulls screech with rusty tongues

Above the beached rotting pirogues,
They were a venomous beaked cloud at Charlotteville.

Once I thought love of country was enough,
Now, even if I chose, there’s no room at the trough.

I watch the best minds root like dogs
For scraps of favour.

Age burnt skin
Peels from my hand like paper, onion-thin,
Like Peer Gynt’s riddle.

At heart there’s nothing, not the dread
Of death. I know too many dead
They’re all familiar, all in character,

Even how they died. On fire,
The flesh no longer fears that furnace mouth
Of earth,

That kiln or ashpit of the sun,
Nor this clouding, unclouding, sickle moon
Whitening this beach again like a black page.

All its indifference is a different rage.


                     Dark Walcott