scruta

Either you are sorting it out, or you are full of it.

Sunday, December 23, 2007

To My Imagination

I praise you, my greatest weapon

Triggered at quick scrapes with social obligations

Floundering insecurities

And greatest aspirations.

How could I thank you for all your services lent to me,

As a wiley beggar strangely, suddenly, perversely

Giving me money just as I hunger for dinner?

You ask nothing but that I engage you,

That I hold you honestly, like a child,

Finding in each of your fiendish devices

A new amusement.

You would pressure me to laugh at nothing,

To find joy in the mundane,

To find myself absentmindedly getting up and

Spinning loops in a square,

My mind full of fantastic scenes,

Only to think that I have lost my wallet

(but then realize it was in my hand the whole time).

You sting deeper than any drug because

You are hand crafted, genetically grafted

To my idiosyncracies,

Heightening no particular part of my psyche artificially

But heightening it all!

You teach me with madness

Only to bring me wisdom. I cry at the thought that I

Was blessed with so perverse an attitude,

With such a kind friend as you.

My shadow, my wanderings! You go

Where I go, intensifying, casting over and over into infinity.

But I feel I must reign you in,

These 3 AM love affairs you bring me while eating

A bowl of ramen can seriously, undeniably,

Medically verifiably, prove detrimental to finding an actual love affair.

It stands to reason you and I have gone too far,

Have perhaps broken off too great a chunk

From the muse’s hip as she bent forward and we stretched for her bosom,

Failing, but refusing to go away empty handed,

When my shrink,

Modern day arbiter of dreams,

Confessional for all those awkward reconstitutions of reality and fantasy,

Tells me I have an active imagination.

(This is usually when we begin to wax Freudian,

Beds filled with all sexes covered in blood and the smell of incest;

Behavior modification,

Careful accounting for thoughts and their distribution,

Since thoughts really can be regulated the same way as the UPS,

Although they rarely illicit the same kind of joy upon their arrival

As one of those brown packages;

The newest tinctures for securing the moderation of anti-social behavior,

Along with careful harmless looking advertising,

Weight gain? Ticks? Loss of sexual appetitite?

Not with this happy blob!

And of course,

Philosophy.)

Okay, we’ll strike a deal,

My ravaging imagination!

I’ll give you a couple hours a day

Just with you – like a girlfriend or something.

We’ll sit in public places, and dream all kinds of things

And I’ll laugh and nobody will know why.

I’ll lock myself in a room and furiously, passionately

Hammer out pages of prose with your assistance.

And then, later on,

I’ll go about my day,

Not going into flights of fancy

Unless I need to be clever for some reason.

I know that you don’t like to work on command,

You’re a prima donna and you need your

Led-Zeppelin style bowl of all green M&Ms

But do you think you could help me win the girl,

Or come up with some really original TV commercial?

Everybody says those pay well…

posted by ferret at 11:42 pm  

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