Succedaneum

A poem inspired by Bukowski

The boy ploughs through his youth
not knowing he’s ploughing
his world
— the crystallized land of fertile imagination
not hurt by scraped knees,
by the call of his mother:
‘Come inside’

Once he is bigger

- taller

- wiser

- forgetful of his wonder

his crops are near-reared
For those who bashed and tumbled
against hard surfaces
become like those very surfaces
And those who were comfortable
— comforted, cozy, confined
become soft like those very surfaces

And all
when they are bigger taller wiser
wear their upbringings like tattoos:
— visible to all, upon a canvas that cannot be reset
And all,
when they are bigger taller wiser
feel the steam
beneath their feet
as fathers, teachers, lovers
demand they be somebody:
- and never be nobody
- and be churners of chattels
- and never be nobody

The boy is dead or half-buried,
as muscles harden and bones begin to ache
Toiling, trading their years for commodities:
— a new car, second mortage, the wedding ring

And the boy might stir in his grave,
when the man catches in the corner of his eye:
— a fleeting fluoresence
— some painting some hill some face
— a mountain, thunderously looming over him
— a familar village, transformed by the caking of snow
— golden rivers of light
— the glistening orb of new life, so soft and round
— a draft for a script long ago dreamt up

Then the palette swaps its colours out
leaving him with grey flecks upon his beard
and piss-tinted glass of whiskey in hand
his family mostly dead and virtually forgotten
his old lovers, distant memories
— producing pain
— he’s now numb to
And one day sitting at his desk
stained with the ringlets of coffee cups
chipped with neglect and age
he notices outside a young thing
the sparkle of life in his eye
starting with a surgeon’s focus
at some flamboyant bug on the ground
and for a moment
a tiny tinge of time
infinitesimal
the man feels what the boy feels
the world of wonder
becomes his home
once again