Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Ipomoea or The Art of Clinging By Marion

Ipomoea or The Art of Clinging
By Marion

No one is free.
Freedom is an illusion.
Your room is not there.
Nobody cares.

the ipomoea instinctively 
reaches up to the sky
clinging to whatever's near

Nothing thrives in
total isolation.
There is no detachment
in nature.

notknowing is
up, up, up...
ignorance truly is bliss.

What was once green,
vibrant & juicy
is now dried up, brown

& useless....useless!!!!

even a poet's gypsy soul
can be bound & knotted,
wither & die in isolation---
why? death always wins...
We're all alone.
you'll wane, too
I'm warning you...
forget you ever knew
the meaning of succulent
wild lust/love/life...

the ipomoea won't grow
in a void:
water, dirt, love,
bees & moths,
warm sunshine...
for such it pines...

You won't even look back
fondly (at all!)
at all that 
steamy, poetry-inspiring 
hormonal, mind-bending sex.
don't laugh, it ain't a hex I'm cooking
I'm warning you that
this, too, shall pass.

One day'll be your last
& you won't know.
It's a ticking clock & 
will stop & won't be
right twice a day, ever again.
Put it on the calendar.
The end is near (in more ways than one)---

The ipomoea, after thousands of 
fragrant flowers,
one night
fails to bloom (bleed)---no foreshadowing,
no premonitions, 
it's just gone.



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