We makers wonder how this world was made,
before our busy hands and cunning brains
tore up the rocky soil, and so despoiled
that finely woven tapestry laid down
before we came upon the sylvan scene,
and formed the notion we could do better,
draining swamps of bestial desires,
crossings oceans and setting forest fires.
Beneath the cast off dolls and building blocks,
at the bottom of our nursery box,
lies a mysterious game, long forgotten,
played with tokens and broken instruments,
a pastime too enigmatic to explain
but one fraught with forbidden joys and pain
banished to forgetfulness into the
lost lands of our gelatinous domain.
Grown now from childish things we wonder where
we were before our fleshy clock began
to tick and tock our imaginary
lives away, or who our real Mother was
before that first comforting softness we seek
was born out of some viscous discontent,
under a tumultuous sea or sky,
to form a nurturing breast or downy cheek.
In the vessel, ready made, the child lies
undead, not hoping to be born to light,
unafraid, waiting in the limpid dark,
floating in the airless void, not breathing,
armed with the possibility of life,
a being not knowing if it will be,
not yet hearing the voices that proclaim,
'you are human and must bear your pain'.
Those silent voices that lie within, where
none can hear, insisting that the bather
must now descend into the clammy tube
below, expelled from the fruitful garden,
so carelessly planted by the Father,
onto the earthen floor or sheeted bed,
without a bye-your-leave to indicate
if there were a choice to be born or dead.
A ghostly being, seeming whole, conjured
From the shuffling toil, rhythmic spirals twist
and spin, grasping the noumena within
to release that first gasping, choking breath:
achieving life it must prepare for death,
or so the judgment goes by those who have
seen how things are with that mutual bond
between knowing flesh and its phantom friend.
With all the crying and the bloody waste
the time for metaphysical distaste
must be delayed, until our newborn ghost
can master the intricacies of life,
and consider at last the peculiar
genesis of its being from pleasure
that, as physicists, we cannot find,
at least not without admitting mind.
But when the word is finally spoken,
It will be a simulacrum of its source;
rivers without rain and rain without clouds,
words before words could be, sounds before sounds,
void before extension, an infinite
sentence without punctuation to parse
eternal laughter from the endless pain
of the never being from whence it came.