The Plight of The Gardener

“I am tending to my heart,” Lon said.
“Let me tend to it,” he groaned and groaned.
“They come as the dance fatigued.
“Onto merry, onto sunshine, onto the that he so little have owned.

“I walked past a breakthrough in reverse– Ka-re-eu!
Turns out committedly playing vict’
Is plentiful in
Rewards.”

Lon turned to the flower and the mute bird with skin like a cow.
“I have kept you within the spit of the sun, have I not?” “You have.”
“I have let the rain not ravage at your legs, have I not?” “You have.”
“Am I your home?” “You are part of it.”

“A-ha!
Don’t you dare take that away from me.
I have lived in this, amongst the guardians of many, and many more,
I bore holes into your sisters’ tombstone while they rot away silent and untouched.”

“The very definition of lone stem, they were,” Daisy spoke.
“These are their branches.
O’, how ugly they fell.
How ugly, how ugly.

Lon gave up trying to grasp
The watering can. It was too far
From reach. It looked
Quiet turned away, and confident.

He remembered his mother doing the same thing,
And then his lovers,
Then his friends,
And some more friends.

“I let myself be compromised for so long.
Through steeple and steep roads, I slide and slip,
Slept with a dagger-holder,
Cared for no one, no, not truly.”

“This,” Daisy, smiling, said
“This is why you have no friends.
“This.
“This is why you’re lonely.”

“Read me something, Daisy. Read to me.”
“Read you what?”
“‘Cowards for love’.
It is my favorite.”

Lon adjusted his legs but couldn’t.
Forgot how to sit.
“Make me feel comfortable. Like you used to,
Daughter to me. Sow me as I saw you. And sue fit.”


..
.

these are lesser minds trying to be holy vigilantes,
and they will go against and after pure as purists,
average people with their average pursuits
those who cannot make love themselves will spoof the love of others,
claim it their own, make it their own, for their own loveless selves
and their already lowly existence will be lonely even more
it is their disease of choice
they will be the ring leaders in their rings of fire,
they will broker broken beyond repair, stealing beyond repair and compare,
beyond sanity, and equity, and without severity
they will crawl out of their horrid beds,
proclaim their lores rampant
but always seeking, spilling, seething,
believing in the doing good
but never doing better,
it is all but a smog for truly the ashamed of what lovers shouldn’t be ashamed of,
do not allow them to make a mockery of your hay-making,
their soul is heinous as their body is heinous with hatred,
and their blasphemy will drive them deeper and deeper
and one by one, they will fall, they will suffer, they will crack
under more desperation for attendance and attention
for they cannot bid for that guileless attraction
–they are not attractive,
but just wishing to be, as they be plaguing lives,
praying to corrupt for they have been preyed corrupt

at the center of every storm is a man who doesn’t know he’s dead yet
hect’ring the winds to calms it never knew, ne’er been born with
ossify that jaundiced root and riot, and remedy with pacification arms if can be
so earnest for susceptible the receptacles if ever brought slitting and shaken to me

.
..

“Is this still your favorite?”
“My one and only absolute.”
“Why?”
“Because I rarely relate, but to this, it fully and fruitfully pains on.

“Because,
My soul is under
Fatigue.
I need the daylight, at least,

“So I can scream at something
Other than the void.”
Lon tried to brush his white coat but he could not move his arms.
His arms smelled like Vincent. Now it is like nothing.

“…And you need something to blame.
And this gives you something to blame.”
“Not something.
No, no, no. Somebody.”

“Other than yourself?”
“Other than myself.”
“How about the world?”
“It has turned its back on me.”

“You did that first.”
“Even so. It is not the world’s best bet to turn its back on me.
Not on me. Or at least, who I was.”
“And who were you before the sirens?”

“I was a handsome bedrock .
I once radiated
The grand.
Now, I am a spiral staircase going downwards. Rotting. Feverish. Constipated.

“I often wonder what you tell yourself to make yourself feel better,
And how often those prayers do work.
Spirits expanding, sprinting,
Hyperbole for the hyper bullies.”

Lon stared above the green house, how rusted the buttresses painted egg.
“Never trust a man who knows too much. He hides too much, lies too much.
Truth is but a card he keeps in his sleeve. Savors it until the table demands a switch.
Bank-runner in the conspiracy. Knows your divine name, too.

“People who go to the beach to find themselves would find nothing there.
They’d have to have already known themselves before boarding a plane.
Lest, they’ll only uncover more time, more time, for derision and denial.”
Lon wished for the waves in the center of the city he never left. House was pain.

House was all he know. Something smelled wrong here. Rotten. Out of place.

“My darlings are docubuffs. They must know, don’t they? O’, they must!
If there’s something other than some senselessly caring adult spell I could cast.
Pour sozin to my tibaie. Let them shrink back to that of a wandering child.
I would ask them to much obligation if they could reverse the entropy and misery,

“But fast, for the daybreak is near and the lines that the high rises make,
They do not reflect good on the silver pool, and the silver-haired break.
I know not all the world’s mistake, just what’s at stake by the wild,
And they find, too, like misplaced hemoglobin marveling in shrewdery.”

“So, young blood,
So, old blood,
When will you start taking care of yourself?”

“Good care. Real care. Not the one that beats only with the some times choir.
Not the one where there’s somebody looking on, looking after, looking forward,
Or behind.”

“Caring is but a demon. It squeezes the life out of you, links it with the others.
It sleeps mostly in the densest of forests for the absolute Dionysians, and probably
For seers, too.”

“You may find meaning in compulsively taking the world back to order,
Or you can just let it all derail as you have rearranged yourself into
Streams by streams in forgottenness.

“Your skin crumples at the shiny surface; only likes itself in the dark.
The inert ersatz drove them nuts,’ you say, bewept and porrect.
Reproduce and reinvent violently and voluminously correct and direct.”

“Dedicate and dictate, and dominate and do nothing.
The outsides and outdoors, both incurable and tiring,
You can’t best the town blanked under blankets.

“You have no Holiday spirit to do Holiday sprints.
Except Halloween, maybe. Maybe during the Holy Week,
Ye weakling, Savor into saviors and their suffering,

“So too spinning and spinning and spitting spitefully,
And surfing and cheering,
And callused by commute.”

“Cowardice for everything– it’s not something new.”
“Duh, duh, duh. Maybe not something for you.”
“I’ll raise a glass to that, and clink if I could, too,
For so often we salvage, mostly ne’er checking the loot.”

“In my lustrous greed for blame, I forgot about accountability”

“The funny thing about depression is how homely it can get,
You let stay in your attic, in the basement,
Only rising to pee or

“To get the mail.
And it checks with you, every fortnight,
Like some Birthday Surprise,

“And you laugh at its jokes
Because it had kept you company
For so long,
You can no longer remember meeting it for the first time,

“And how you looked like in the first.
It plays your sorrows because sorrows complete you now.
The world is bleak without it
And bleak with it.

“You laugh at its jokes, thinking, thinking
‘A bullet to the head isn’t so bad’
That you smile at thoughts of easy escape.

“What I wouldn’t give, O’, what I
Wouldn’t give
For that charming rope ’round the neck.”

“Being needy has never been a good look on me.
I wear it anyway. I wear it proud.
I am that,
Hardly.”

“Hark me. Hark on. Will come in handy one day.
Will come in handy, maybe, maybe,
So, alas! At last!”

“There is that time
When you stop talking to your siblings because of the irreversible damage you meant to cause
So you pass the halls silent, head forward, heart bent,

“Pretending they’re less than
Apparition, less than
Ghosts, even.”

Daisy swayed as he tried to move his hips, brown in his mind.
“Why can’t I move them?”
“Who do you believe you are?” they asked.
“I am Lon. I am your gardener, 27, and lost some times, found some times.”

“No,” the small twit said, already uglied with disbelief.
You are not Lon. You are Woodcut.”
“I am not who you say I am. I am the owner
Of this here garden.”

“Daisy, tell me I am.”
They turned their face away.
“I planted you. I raised you.”
“No. I raised the remainder of you.”

Woodcut blinked at his limbs now the color of sea snake,
His toes buried below the white sea, where the flies bit in parties.
“Nobody remembers the name of my grandfather’s grandfather.
Soon, I will be him.

“I do not want to be him. I am Lon! I built this garden!”
He blinked and forgot again, and asked again. “I am Lon– am I not?”
The three ignored their lonely blackened owner lying.
Daisy ate the sun. The piebald chirps to nothing.


OTHER POEMS BY ETHAN LESLEY CC | CLICK HERE TO VIEW ALL || Burgundahlia, poetry
 
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