THE LEDGERS
I have been collecting the names
of demons from dusty ledgers,
Each a fossilised passion or despair.
Every one a poet and a diva,
Conceited, numerous as neurons
In the brains of man.
Some starved, some sated.
It is the nameless ones
We should be fearing most,
Whose attributes and legions are unlisted.
It is they that twist the fibres of time and space,
That lead us down reasonable paths
To utter foolishness.
They bear the bitterness of millennia being ignored,
Sidelined by brassy, golden heroes.
Volcanic, metamorphic, sedimentary –
They constitute, certain, a slow wearing bedrock.
They know too well the mountains and horizons we long for
Are all relentless and prone to murder.
Dressed in orifices of delight and disgust,
The greatest demon is the one that teaches
That there are no such things as demons,
Denying all history, mocking the laboured divisions
Of day and night, and reasons why,
Filleting the intellect from all shining breath.
They are well-beloved now in sharp suits,
Eloquent in Greek and Latin, they dream in Sanskrit,
Swear in Aramaic, count in Japanese.
They name and number every combination
Of moral gymnastics.
They are masters of the callisthenics of judgement,
Ballroom dancers of complete seduction.
They are the best of us, who best us.
We, the sly self-harmers of evolution,
Ingenious inventors of delusional druggery.
They are dressed in war and holiness
( as we could tell the difference).
All they need is a little time, a little understanding.
‘Sit you down, take us through your thinking.
We will listen.’
Non-judgmental, professional, just taking
One or two salient notes.
Paring off slices of soul for real estate
At bargain rates, a place to retire to,
With excellent views.
‘But look’, they say,
‘We are nothing
But patterns of thought.
Born, nurtured, clothed,
Given names.
Exercise us,
we will become domesticated,
The new normal.
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