Saturday, June 23, 2012

The Conscious Objects

Picking at my fingers with meticulous sight,
Not by the day, the sun, but by the cold moonlight.
As if sifting through the pages of an old book,
In which I hardly take a second glance or look,
I move from finger to finger and flex their strength;
Inside my head I imagine I walk the plank.
But hidden inside of my mind, the trove untouched
These many years by mine intellect, ever closed,
And guarded by lock and key, is a thing untouched
That causes me to shiver up and down; exposed,
Such a thing would compel me to act, just as words
Do cause a man to think, to ponder what he heard.
And though I pick my way through life without a thought
As to what the end holds for me, what I've done bought
With the flipping of book pages without a care,
Inside the recess of my mind, the unconscious
Weight of the past begins to concoct some snare
For my weary feet with a dandy delicious
Treat; such a thing is often my downfall in life,
And in it I find, more than in books or films, strife.
Still now, I'll keep to my ways, I'll keep picking
Though the pros and the cons like they were a new list
Of things that needed my approval; and will sing
Out a song of disprovable, will make a strong fist
By which I shall make ruin upon the conning muck
That threatens my way of life, the ways that I've stuck
Through the years that I've lived. Rather quaint was my thought,
As a man who is swimming for life out at sea;
Approached by a boat that is much stronger than he;
Yet he at least knew when he was good and dead, caught.
Now the boatman howls in laughter, comes a charging 
With his steam all a puffing behind him, barging
In like men with business to a crowded saloon,
In order to catch the ignorant fool, buffoon.
And the quaintness now shows in full, as the buffoon
Turns around with a smile on his face, confident
In his abilities to vanish without trace.
But little did he realize he was all bent,
His mind was playing tricks on him, like a
Mirage that opens wide it's beaming arms to kill
With a storm of sand that threatens to give your fill.
I'm a picky man, and I picked my way through streets
Of gold that shone in the day, silver beams of light
I chose as my favorite means to see, soccer cleats
What I would wear upon my feet while in flight,
And I thought I'd picked the battle; but I hadn't.
For a man whose locked away his bitter fear, kept
Far from sight what he chose to ignore, did clear
Himself from it like a man from pony express,
Didn't realize deadly purpose, adamant 
Purpose did follow him wherever he did steer,
Did chase him around were he did pick luck to bless
His path and all that he would find along his way;
To his ruin, for to fight one's own mind in May
When the wind is blowing and the dust breathes perfume,
Is about as bad as reading that David Hume!
I still pick at my fingers, but they pick me back;
For I'm now stuck inside a prison, alack!
My conscious overcame me in that bar brawl fight,
And now I sleep on a bed of stone. Well, Goodnight!

                    The Conscious Objects (c) Luke Bennette, June 2012

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