It always begins with sulking,
a scruffy kind of gravity.
You can feel seriousness eroding
a frown that age hasn’t yet provided.
You tell yourself this is respectable,
sitting tall and aloof,
like a campaigning senator
or an icy old Rotary Clubber.
Yes, this is high taste.
Refined and dignified,
sophisticated, surly and sour.
But the illusion won’t last.
It is not the world that is dissatisfying
Well it is, but that’s not the world’s problem.
Why even just yesterday you were drunk
with your classic musings and meanderings
scribbling, reflecting, your galloping mind
—imbibing its own syrupy nuances–
was aglow with philosophy and science.
The asymmetry of your solemn scowl
penetrates your pretense like a headache.
Can’t blame the seriousness, of course,
if only it was seriousness.
There are serious things in life, perhaps,
but not this.
The buckling wave just before it breaks
might itself seem just so serious
were it not for the grinning spittle of its foam,
its swirling fingers reaching into the beach sand,
like toes wriggling lustfully deeper.
Photo by pedrojperez