Leopardi's Complaint
                               Leopardi's Complaint
                                                                                 for I.D.
                          "I have already told you, I live in another world, and I
                 thought you would have an insight into it, as I had of yours."
                                                    Anais Nin to Antonin Artaud
Dangerous love,
the unrequited climb tall trees,
the higher the closer to hell the fall,
or embarrass society
with their comings and staying,
not slinking back until the final chance has tolled.
There is no such thing as a poet;
a hobbyist of good skill
or a famed career
is a second to life,
there's no causal relation
that connects love and song.
Poetry is not enough,
and neither, it seems, is love;
they walk closely but never meet,
never hold hands. Never take root
in each other's soil:
Nothing can grow in alien mores.
Tragedy is art.
As an autistic person
who's found purpose in soul and mind
opens a psychology manual
finding his personal uniqueness accurately described,
meaning on the page
can devastate life.
Poetry isn't magic.
A song can't barter love.
Ephebe, you might have the heart
of a Holderlin and the profile of Byron;
however much her love of poetry,
it has nothing to do with you.
   .  .  .  .  .
All day on top the localist Brocken
in punctured meditation of the mad birds, unnamed flowers
and sky obscuring trees tangle as vines
of poison ivy climb the space between valleys;
nothing gets done, dreams are unremembered,
the Fantastic Symphony has already been written,
Mallarme makes such sense dead;
turn tree stumps to candles! scorch the astral world!
no Blue Fairy comes through a window of cottoncandy anise
to make you a real man;
the birds have no message, they are mad as nature
with you the clothed monster staring into stone,
drowning in the illusion of another;
not every hill has a Jill,
not all celebration a Laura;
death holds no Paradise.
So greet your lady warmly
with steady income and protean fears.
Leave your jumbled verse for untried nature
and the obscure birds.

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