Like a vast army of gen­tle tribesmen,
I feel lit­tle pins and needles
Dance up the pole of my forearm
From the long fin­gers to the crankly
Elbow to the humerus and the
Clavicle,
Right up to my neck and to the nape
Of it, where my hair ends in little
Pre­his­toric pedi­cles of ungroomed growth,
More akin to primates,
Down my back this hair,
This love­ly down, this crest of
Awe­some fur to ter­ror­ize the enemies
Of the pack
And crest­fall­en I watch,
If at all pos­si­ble, I watch
The out­come of my ances­try crawl
Up and down my back
Like a jester of times past,
When you had to fight for the day
And the night,
You had to fight for anoth­er few weeks
Of bondage in the hands of nature,
O we are such a fear­some race
And all our remain­ing hairs are
Scarce memory,
Faint mem­o­ry of all that has gone
Before,
Of all the fer­al carnage,
The blood­bath, the ter­rif­ic embraces,
The blunt instru­ments and the eyes,
Always the eyes meandering
Across the for­ti­fi­ca­tions of countless
Citadels,
Spelling out doom,
Eye­ing the battlements,
Siz­ing up the task at hand, when
The liq­uid fire would be unleashed –
Death had advanced now to catch
Up with our savagery,
No longer in the cave with the
Shadows,
No longer an ide­al death among
Ide­al death-fel­lows walk­ing down
The aisle,
But now a death alto­geth­er more
Concrete
No less sin­is­ter but more concrete,
More opaque
Less yield­ing to the eye,
No longer in the cave
But out in the open, in broad daylight
Block­ing out the sun,
Sil­hou­et­ting against it, plotting,
Unrav­el­ing, con­spir­ing to seize the
Days off this sun and to give
O give so many lit­tle tragedies
To all that would care to fol­low its
Course,
Oth­er­wise heartless,
Not inter­est­ed in real numbers
Not inter­est­ed in their roots or
Imag­i­nary counterparts
Only pro­ceed­ing by rote
In a list­less sort of lulling
Motion,
Great nar­cot­ic this death by
Man,
Great paci­fi­er, to count the skulls
And bless your ances­tral gods,
Laugh off the unin­hab­it­able fear
And the coldness,
Look up to the fenestella,
To the stars creep­ing towards you
Precessionally,
You were no savage
You were king and feoffor,
Patron of the arts,
For­mi­da­ble war­rior in fine brocade,
You had found­ed banks and
Erect­ed Davids
And chis­eled out an imperial
Pro­file and a rus­ti­cat­ed existence
Of refined val­our and urbane cruelty,
You were the founder of cities,
The foundry of base metal,
The chief­tain of unrequited
Adulteries,
You the prime vassal,
The assail­er of beau­teous pageants
And the ruler of unruly passions,
So many women at your feet and
Between them
So many times four-legged
But not of the caves
But of the cav­i­ties of one’s
Lusty appetites,
Cav­i­tat­ing inwards
Towards the merril,
Feel­ing the loins of your
Pulse thrust­ing forward,
To sting and sting again
Kill all and then
Per­form the ulti­mate act of
Mercy
Make love to earn love
Earn love and put it aside,
Set up a cur­rent account or
Something
To prof­it from all the love,
All the pil­laged love that was
Giv­en first-hand,
Unyield­ing admi­ra­tion and
Zest, to par­take of the conquest,
How bar­bar­ic can this be,
How tribal,
How many men can eschew it,
Men who grow a fine mane of hair
And put on their hel­mets and
Ride into the stormcloud,
Com­mand­ing the opac­i­ties of the sky,
The com­pass and the gyro­scope at
Their disposal,
Mean-spirited,
This is no savagery
This is dis­cov­ery and exploration
And leadership
Men are there to per­form it,
To give it flesh and bones,
To give it thrust
To majes­tize it,
O and to sing it at the top of
Their chest-voices
“Lau­damus”,
Like a dense choir of
Fall­en angels
Benighted
At daybreak.

I get up
By reflex action.
I put the ket­tle on.
Noth­ing feels better
Than a clean shave in
The morning.
I shave. 
 

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