All day, all day, I hear the blackbird’s song
Within the daffodils and clematis I sit among,
Swinging in the seat on my cabin’s porch,
My Imagination beckons, clutching a torch,
Perceived to be the hardened rays of the sun:
“O leave this handsome refuge – come out, Reuben! –
And follow me over mountains, clumped with pine,
And delight in nature’s jewellery – by faeries’ designed –
Who take life as their canvas, and decadently smother
Everything that lives with all varieties of color,
Until exhausted, they retreat into the cup of a bluebell,
Which rings a peal too pure for human lips to tell;
But perhaps you can follow – follow me – let us sing! –
Put an end to paralysis, and take off on wings,
To enchanted forests – where wildflowers whisper –
In petally idioglossia – O, mistier and mistier!
A language of color sending the listener mad –
And if you should hear it, you should be glad,
For madness is liberation – and liberty – life! –
It’s the stairway to heaven – the pulse-freeing knife,
That lets the orderly drip out in all directions –
Yes, perhaps, violence, wars, and insurrections,
But also improbabilities by logic disallowed,
Let’s lift up those skirts – take off those shrouds –
And sail on clouds of wood anemone, up into space,
Where one can have orgies, yet still remain chaste!
Where blackbirds don’t sing, but utter melodic truths,
And happiness is restored by the same pain it removes!
Yes, consider the birds – they know it all –
Ducklings cascading down Patagonian waterfall,
Partridges – parakeets – larks rising and descending –
Don’t you know your fantasies are never-ending?
Imagination is infinite – life is infinite imagination –
Free-will playing games with pre-destination,
Thought after thought, like linked beads in a necklace,
I’ve told you before: Imagination is endless!
So, come Reuben – follow me – fall into the sky –
You do not need wings to be this impossibly high,
Only a mind most buoyant – eviscerated of dross –
Like that Tsarina of the Sky – The Albatross!
Always sailing in the sky – even sleeping on the wing,
And when its life ends as it did begin
The sky will be its egg with infinite shell,
Hatched out from reality – this miscreate hell –
Into a greater bourn – an incomprehensible splendour –
Like all the works of The Renaissance put in a blender!
With color fertilizing color, cross-breeding realities,
Quantum head-fuckery and surrealist modalities,
Pinwheeling through Elysium in multi-dimensional motions –
(And, if you sail into the sun, you’ll be needing more lotion!) –
Until you settle on a planet, emerald evergreen,
More splendid than anything you’ve ever seen,
And among strange rushes, into stranger water,
I’ll dip in my feet and wonder if Chaucer
Whilst hunched over, writing, At Richard II’s court,
Would take the laws of the universe as his fanciful sport?
But we have ‘The Book of the Duchess’ – ‘The Canterbury Tales’ no less,
To see how keenly this man of tenderness
Could extrapolate from human nature things holy and sublime –
And interweave them with fart jokes without missing a rhyme!
Ah, like me! Like me! A maker of melody!
Who can weep over a poem, or a good cup of tea,
With a bandolier of bad puns, I can span the void,
Whilst ensuring fart putty is still well-employed!
Put a whoopee cushion under God’s Arse – the angels will harp –
Stifling their titters when they hear that world-creating ‘PARP!’
Yes, the world is made from farting – Rabelais could tell you,
With God’s Sperm still soaking in the dampness of mildew!”
Ah, my Imagination’s Wonderlust – will these couplets never cease!
Can we not slow them with treacle – nor clog them with grease?
But no – like a Queen Termite in perpetual birth,
My Imagination mixes whimsy with sorrow and mirth,
And like a swallow on hearing sweet summer’s spell,
I travel African coasts, o’er Mediterranean hell,
And count myself an explorer, great adventurers among,
Just because I listened to a lone blackbird’s song