In a stream my consciousness is afloat
like Noah’s gopher wood boat.
An ark of thought, a covenant,
fitted with an outboard motor,
speeding across an ocean of ideas
in a white overcoat.
Across the ocean there lies a land
where the beaches are terribly bland
and phonemes, dwell beneath the sand.
Where fact and fiction are swept up
by the tides of taste and lain upon a shore,
desolate, except for a cultural gate.
Guarded by a sycophantic cat
that sits on an intransigent mat.
Slavishly deciding what is ‘culture’
and who it should let in.
Determining what is rubbish
destined for the bin.
Beyond the cultural gate in the realm of
the ‘canon of stolen truths.’
A miasma blurs the dwellings,
golden towers with ivory roofs.’
Inhabited by odious beasts
that thrive on cultural snobbery.
Profane creatures, renowned for
their linguistic robbery.
Oppressing realistic voices
in favour of elitist choices.
As my boat draws near
the motor looses a gear.
Tendrils of fear now grip the ark’
floating aimlessly, adrift in the dark.
Heading toward the canonical reef,
A rocky barrier where many
has come to grief.
I release the birds
that carry the words - but to no avail.
My mission is doomed to fail
smashed against the rocks, and sunk.
To be washed up on a desolate shore
Like flotsam – just a pile of junk.
P Williams ©2001