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Dee Sunshine

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Member Since: Jul, 2003

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by Dee Sunshine

Monday, July 14, 2003

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I hate Milan Kundera for smuggly suggeting that us lesser mortals are graphomaniacs. I'd like to kick his arrogant arse (if I could get anywhere near him). The least I can wish for is he one day chances upon this poem.


Did you not once allude, that through the cracks in the world
Other possibilities might make themselves manifest?

Imagine then,
Dear sweet magnificent writer-man,
A world without Milan the conjurer of words
An alternate unreality
Where being is neither light nor unbearable,
Where words do not flow
Quite so smoothly
Or smugly
From the pen,
Where you struggle to make sense
Of a senseless world
And yet, continue
To write and write
And write it all down

These ideas, these stories
And revolting to your sensibilities:
Cloying as fresh spilt blood.

But you write and you write and you write
Because you must
Because you suffer,
Like so many others,
From that ego disorder,
Which in another time, another place,
You so eruditely despised
As the scribbling of worms
Lost in a labyrinth of dirt:

Muss es sein?
Muss es sein?
Jah, es muss sein!

Oh, I know you, Milan,
I know you
And all your type:

I have sifted through
The fine sands
Of your refined mind
But nothing have I found.

A nothingness, so sublime
It cannot be tempered
By the ravages of time.

I know you:
I have walked the highways
You sped through.

You are the magus and we are the fools:
You tall poppy, you,
Who grew and grew and grew
Despite the clouds
That smothered the sun.

You are the one,
The alpha and omega:
The beginning and the end
Of all that needs
To be said and done.

You laugh at the poor clods
Striving to grow
In the fallow lands
Way down below.

Laughter, after all
Is the curse of those
Who live in the high strata
Of Himalayan peaks
And needs must
Feed their need
On refined substance
That has no sustenance:

Muss es sein? Muss es sein?
Let me hear what you divine:
Tell me now
How do you fill
That gaping hole?

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