A DARK POEM

“The dream reveals the reality which conception lags behind. That is the horror of life.” - Franz Kafka

A poem that I wrote when I was a young University student, in my first year at University and inspired by a night out at the theatre. A walk in the darkened streets and a quiet reflection alone in my room that very night. It’s long and it’s dark. Just like that remembered night.

Masterpiece

Tall, blonde, beautiful, haughty in her perfection,
She holds on to him possessively -
A most suitable match.
The silk feels like a caress on her flawless skin
While he wears Parisian ties
To match his film star physique.
The restaurant.
The bar.
The hotel.
The Members’ Lounge.

The columns of the Town Hall
In spotlit splendour,
Befitting Gala Night.
Corinthian columns,
Smooth stone, polished marble,
Peach, apricot, soft pastel pink...

“We are on a hunger strike”
“This is what living on the dole is like”:
Amidst the carefully pruned greenery,
(A quasi-horticultural display)
Of multicoloured tributes to the florist’s art,
At the base of the rosaceous columns,
Blending with the dirty sidewalk flagstones,
Three demonstrators camp
Outside the Town Hall.

She can walk by,
Safely hovering on another plane
Perched high above them on her stiletto heels,
Silk stockings, brand new, to match her once-worn outfits,
And not two paces down
She smirks and laughs,
Her eyes dismissing them
Her mind brushing aside their presence
As one would brush away an annoying gnat.

Unshaven faces, matted hair,
Makeshift sleeping arrangements
On the cold, dirty pavement.
Big signs.
Glaring letters:
“$90 a week”

Down the city street he hobbles
Carrying his weight on two crutches
Flesh and bone like dead ballast,
Walking alone.
Deformed and bent and stunted
He moves quickly
As though he is trying to escape from
The blasphemy of his body.
He shakes, trembles, totters...
His spindly legs unsteady
Making obscene efforts at a rapid walk,
His big head set crookedly,
Only his eyes beautiful,
Large, liquid, soft and brown.
Innocent, blameless,
Like the eyes of the puppy sitting by the demonstrators’ side.

The perfect couple pass by the cripple
Their eyes oblivious to his pain,
Their eyes only full of each other.
Ignoring him they share a joke,
Laughter…
He walks on, or rather,
Hobbles, drags himself, staggers past them,
His eyes pinned on them
Their every perfection
A million diamond pins
Impaling their hard, relentless points
In every part of his misshapen hulk.



Champagne and toasts.
And multicoloured lights;
What fun! How entertaining!
Our life’s a movie,
And yes, all the world’s a stage.
The theatre full of cruelly gazing spectators
Each eager to catch a glimpse of his own secret vice
Each eager to denounce it when in other players is seen.

The lights,
The night air - how cold it is tonight!
The policemen,
The youths, drunk, packed in their converted Holdens,
The tattoos on their arms
Leering profanely,
Revelling in their indelibility.

Masterpiece!
Our life moves in pre-ordained,
Dictated steps as outlined by Your divine wisdom!
Oh yes, I have forgotten,
All moving to the beat of a rock rhythm.
The world: The most beautiful.
This world of beauty, peace, contentment,
This most perfect place!

The billboards scream in lurid fonts:
“You too will be like me!
Use...”
“Desirable, lovable, irresistible!
Use...”
Blank faces, lonely, haunted eyes,
Clutched hands, writhing fingers,
Empty bodies stacked in the rattling trams.
“Why won’t he hold my hand?”
“Oh, Mum, why can’t I ask you,
Why won’t he hold my hand?”

The trees still make a show
Of their young, green, new leaves
Even under the harsh glow of artificial light.
The University spotlit, deserted,
Still looks respectable,
And secure,
And permanent,
Just as it ought to!
Its hallowed halls ringing by day
To laughter of tall blondes
And their perfectly matched consorts.

You only live once,
So live in silk,
And drink champagne.
Amuse yourself,
Go to the theatre,
Laugh
As you watch the world
Perverted through its prism.

Masterpiece!
“A masque, we must have a masque!
Prepare the costumes,
Lay on the paint, don the wigs!”
Titters run through the audience
As on stage a man dared to kiss another.
Even you must laugh sitting next to your wife,
Although you want to cry.

The cripple outside hobbles, stumbles, tries to run.
The unemployed demonstrators shiver,
Make ready for the coldest part of the night ahead.
An old derelict rummages through the rubbish.
A policeman waves him on.
A drunk lies in stupor under a flashing neon sign:
“BAR” - “BAR” - “BAR”.

The colleges loom dark on the right up ahead,
Three students are returning there.
They laugh deliriously
Immersed in shallow, selfish joys,
What fun they’ve had tonight,
As much as they will have tomorrow,
Twice as much as last night!
And everything moves in pre-ordained,
Dictated steps as outlined by Your divine wisdom!
Oh yes, I have forgotten,
All moves to the beat of a rock rhythm.
Why should I want to cry?

The exclusive restaurant lit discreetly
Shines forth in the darkened avenue
Just like a precious topaz sunlit
In the bottom of a dark pool.
The perfect couple dine within.
The wine is chilled to the precise temperature
(A wine thermometer is used to check this).
“New season’s colours:
Dusty pink, sage, lemon, lilac...”
Black leather profiles, flawlessness.
Sex, perfection, lust, flesh.
The body beautiful.

The advertisements howl:
“Be like me,
Use...”
The glasses touch, the crystal rings
Smiles show gleaming white teeth,
Smiles part ruby lips,
Smiles thin the sensuous mouths.

Dark streets,
Wind-buffeted empty cigarette packets,
Yesterday’s paper announcing new wars,
Jangling empty tin cans,
The same brand as those on the poster up above...
The leaves rustle and the boughs bend.
A stray dog roams the streets
Sniffing at the overturned garbage cans.
A retarded child sleeps oblivious to all that the night hides,
His dreams featureless, his unconsciousness
Clouded by the cocoon of the Institution walls around him.

The perfect couple exchange coy glances
Painted eyes and thickened lashes
Transmit messages and mete out covert promises.
The glint of an engagement diamond.
The drunk stirs in his saturated slumber,
A smile plays upon his lips
As faded childhood images torture his dreams.

Why does it all hurt me so?
Why must everything be more acutely felt
When one is alone?
Why is it all so nightmarishly unreal?
Why should my soul feel dead inside
After I had seen the cripple’s eyes outside the Town Hall?
Why does the music hurt me so tonight?
Why does each note become a dagger
Stabbing me through and through?
Why must I be asked when I get home:
“Why do you look as though you want to cry?
What happened, why are you sad?
Tell me tomorrow, now it’s late,
Go to bed!”

The radio blares its rock drivel,
The record whines its classical perfection.
The trite and the deep,
Philosophy, pop culture.
The newspaper whispers:
The psychology of advertising,
Self-sufficiency,
Macro-economic reform,
New fears of famine in Africa,
Sustainable economic growth,

The advertisements continue to scream:
Consume, consume, consume,
More, more, more!

Leisure studies, boredom, Long Weekends,
The masses.
The theatre goers.
Lady X wearing her tiara.
The cripple meeting the perfect couple;
He sees them in all their perfection,
His imperfection making him invisible,
Non-existent to them.
The demonstrators sleeping under the rosy columns,
The little retarded boy smiling even in his sleep,
The drunk kicking nightmarish pursuers as he rolls into the gutter.
Why does the music hurt?

Masterpiece!
Everything in wisdom was created,
Our life moves in pre-ordained,
Dictated steps as outlined by Your divine wisdom!
Oh yes, I have forgotten,
All moves to the beat of a rock rhythm.

Locked up churches,
Darkened spires, lit motorways,
Garish discotheques,
Painted whores peddling caresses,
One night stands,
Nice girls who do
Good girls who don’t.

The organ peals,
Here comes the bride,
The groom awaits in spotless splendour.
The bride in white lace, pure, virginal. Ha!
The best man, striped grey flannel,
Happy relatives,
“I always cry at weddings...”
The reception;
“Was it at the charity function I saw you last,
Or was it at Uncle Norman’s funeral?”

The Prince plays polo.
Some Ethiopian is dying of hunger.
Some bomb is being dropped somewhere tonight.
The demonstrators sleep outside the Town Hall.
The cripple sleeps alone and dreams in technicolour.
The drunk is shifting in his stupor and mumbles incoherencies.
The perfect couple are entwined and moan in ecstasy.
The billboards howl more loudly than the wind.
The newspaper susurrates half-truths.
The youths kick the drunk till he passes out, bleeding.
The rosy columns are so beautiful, but cold.
The church is tall, solid, permanent but locked.
The family is sleeping quietly unawares.
I cannot sleep.
Why am I crying?