the w i n d
is music
to our
ears
cocked & hairy
as if
we were
really
interested
in listening

but it is the snout
that gives us away
twitching
running with d r o o l
salivating
grunting
greeding
snorting
for
the next fix

if one were to tell
all that’s possible
would it be more
than casting pearls?
and yet
is there any choice?
silk purses
do
sometimes
get sewn!

at a certain point
we are
who we are
& must
like the wind
join the h o w l
just incase
the sound
can
penetrate
our thick ears

to sin is not
what we
think
or have been
taught
no
damnation
nor 1001 ways
to fear death
perhaps
it be
the blade
of redemption
even

it means
simply
to err
to stray
to lose our way
& in that
moment
of r e a l i s a t i o n
to see
we are
l o s t

this
is the road
back from
I don’t feel right
to some sense
of oneself
of being
in the right place
at the right moment
to meet ourselves
outside of
gruntland
& say
hello, again
and again

to see
that we are lost
makes us
pause
and lift our
blind snouts
from the offal
the big feast
of wet sloppy
chittlins
dressed-up like
a banquet

snouts down
we are sure
there’s a pearl there
somewhere
in the next mouthful
or the next
we look for hope
where there
is only hunger
& itching
to scratch
our sense
of dis-place-ment
a mouthful
to fill our v o i d

but
perhaps
it came out
already?
grunt
snort
fart
shit
eat
shoving
the nose
everywhere

soon it is all
a s a m e n e s s
food
or shite
or regurgitation
who
can distinguish
the difference?
who cares?
we become
happy grunters
drunk on methanol
driven by despair
searching for hope
in all
the wrong
places

but there’s
that wind again
a lament
why
does it wail
so
woefully?
why
do I remember
that tune?
shall I dare
to stop
& prick my ears
just
for a
moment?
shall I
gather the courage
to look up?

[]

whisper 2 - 5 will be online shortly.

copyright © 2003
andrew lovatt