Poem: Pink Ribbons


I tie a pink ribbon around

My neck to show that I am a

Gift to the World – or should it be

A noose? Something more abstruse?

Which, on inspection, will fittingly

Adduce, that I have yet to state a

Truce between what I was, and what

I hope to be? In this Interregnum of

Identity, I am indecisive and transitory –

A Pandora’s Box waiting to be opened,

So it can cast its rancid obscurities

Out. Perhaps, if I had a perm, I

Could pretend to be Albert Durer, and

From my masterly pencil, discern, a

Complex of Alchemical tractates, to

Bemuse those that outlive me? –

Perhaps I shall be a Mesmerist, caught

In a miasma of electrical mist, until

My enlightened sensuality is dismissed,

By those that don’t really know how to

Feel. I have stolen Lord Nelson’s arm, and

Used it as a backscratcher – assumed his

Glass eye as an ersatz olive, in my

Comic, cosmic martini – a ballad of

Time, excrement, and space – I hope it will

Not be a waste! But that is one of the

Things about Eternity: you

Know there will always be a

Little bit left over, some supernumerary

Rover, which, wreathed in clover, will

Declare the inviolable principle of

Endless Excess – ah, to express! –

To leap into that ocean of Nothing, and

To be caught in the tresses and currents

Of Something! I feel that – the woof and

The weft, the curve and the cleft, of the

Ticking of a clock being nullified, by

Timelessness’s infinite ill-meaning –

So, I’ll go along screaming into clusters,

Into forests, into unspeakable wombs

Of nacreous lustre.

With Nautilus shell as my canvas,

I shall declare ‘We’re no longer

In Kansas!’ And I wake to find, the

Straw taken from me, to recall who

Dorothy was after all. So, in this

Interregnum of Identities, I shall browse

Through the panoply, of people, characters,

Poets, and actors, I have yet to be –

I have been the Outrageous Devil – now,

In an effort to contradict myself, shall I

Become ‘The Virgin Prince’? Who bedecks

Himself in taffeta and chintz? No –

My tailor does not work from earthly

Material; in love with his own genius,

He draws from the fabric of my

Imagination, to make for me –


I don’t like the cut of his jib – so,

I shall cut him, then cut myself, to

Try and sever the mutual confusion,

That leaves me so listless, so blinded –

With thoughts unwinded, I shall hide myself

In the corner of a coffee shop –an

Unqualified fop looking for some

Sign, some inspiration, of who I might

Next like to be.


And what do I want to be? A

Help, a boon – not a buffoon –

More than just a joke everyone is

Willing to laugh at, but no one makes

The effort to understand. In this green and

Pleasant land, where stupidity is much in

Demand, I have seen beautiful old

Buildings, blackened by smoke, and

People, who, with pink ribbons, my throat

Would choke. But still, I will wait

Outside my own Houses of Parliament,

To make sure a crowd of me is ready

To rebel, when the next King of my


Is crowned.


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