book review


uncontrolled to the soul we do not praise or sing songs or find feast or seek favour we just meet and then we drink and sometimes we talk nothing much occurs within or without venerate or die slice a piece of pie and then you are going to travel far away and you make an island you are no island no man is an island the rain is coming the hail is coming it is the hail all hail and give favour it is not your yellow robe it is not your shorn head it is not your beating heart it is your erasure of self it is the loss of the ego it is the parting of the ways it is the parting of your hair it is the part that you play it is the playful recollection it is the collection of aphorisms the aforementioned betrayal of the self until the way the way give the way of the ghostdog the dog of the samurai that smarmy real estate agent the agency you dream you have the dream you had the whimper that you’re making in your sleep your sleep you sleep perchance to dream and as you dream the storm sets in and there you are walking with the sky into the abyss of your emotions none of which were real

there was but sorrow

and death the end of all makes an end of the man who ever thirsty for desires gathers the flowers of sensuous passions

Categorized as musing

By Eleanor Jackson

Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet, performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal about town, feminist, freewheeler, and friend.

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