Most Days Feel Like Camus Whispering
By the time evening
had adhered to a drunken night,
like sailors
with too much money,
too little time,
hard-ons the size of torpedoes,
we barrelled into Père Lachaise
to celebrate long dead bards
with shots of verse
washed down by pints of prose.
Sitting shitfaced on a painter’s epitaph
counting stars with nothing
but polystyrene tumblers of bourbon to guide us
while we pushed smoke rings
up the eternal orifices of the truly gifted.
Eventually we vomited on headstones of greatness,
urinated Bohemian pride across their memory,
raising a toast to Heloise who had given some of us
the best head job any could remember.
One quoted Buk
who described a whore,
“as having a dress like a burning flag.”
Thomas Chatterton came mysteriously into the conversation
having opted for an arsenic cocktail too soon.
Guy was so inebriated maybe he empathised with,
“Before his optics daunced a shade of nyghte...”
before rolling unconscious onto Jim Morrison.
Snippet of Van Gogh to his brother Theo entered this slurring fray.
Something proudly beautiful wrapped in a plea for more funds
Line from ‘De Profundis.’
For in amongst all this ghost infested marble lay Oscar
who died that desolate,
dissolute
death of an exiled artist
with nothing but his humanity and humour in tact- parting with
“The wallpaper is killing me, one of us has to go.”
De Profundis - A letter written in prison and in fetters
“…by way of little warning
is that every moment should be beautiful,
for the soul should always be ready
for the coming of the bridegroom,
always waiting for the voice of the lover,
Philistinism
being simply that side of man’s nature
that is not illuminated by the imagination.”
Next morning
stars had gone.
Polystyrene tumblers
caught by chilled breezes
cart wheeled and bumped
off the cold graves
of those famous departed.
And although most days
feel like Camus whispering-
“Really, nothing in my life had changed”-
from that day to this,
by way of little warning,
every thought
illuminated by imagination
is like waiting
for the voice of my lover.
dp robertson
A lover of good writing he remains hurt that his masterpiece, “Look at those snow clouds- you could be getting ten inches tonight!" did not make it to this issue of Burst. Married, lives in a household of women who all shout, scream and laugh with each other and quite frankly would not want it any other way. His poetry, essays and other crap appear mostly on http://allpoetry.com/dp%20robertson where he has been banned as many times as Horus8 who also couldn’t give a flying continental for political correctness. An Australian with a love of US politics and a deep loathing for the republican administration who were a blight on all things good; he remains optimistic that Obama can somehow be the political Mandrake America needs to save them from the shame and global ignominy left like a steaming turd on the desk of the Oval Office by the previous incumbent. He fiercely loves and fiercely loathes and refuses to go a day without a hug, a smile and loud expletives: Writes in much the same fashion.
