the scurvy tunes of alonzo riley (7)

Ludo Blissett
in appled shade
sitting ponders.

My muse, what ails
this ardour?

Our groupings
in affinity
be a sturdy form
and tactic
for survival.

And beloved,
it hath gladness,
aye.

But this hatch
we've levered open
all defyingly,
is it truly wide?
Is it politick?

Will it let us
pass, multitudo?
Spill us all out
of this hated muck?

He wonders,
hand to goaty chin.

Or was it slain
too ragingly,
that beasty Party
of old?

His knees
he hugs,
rocking.

No, right it was
to kill it,
the thing
it had become.

But if not that,
then what?
By what
can we defend us
now, still
at risk in shadow
of armèd might,
mean-prickly,
horror-seeded?

Harder to say
than once he thought.
Chewy food
for thinking.

    *    *    *

Do we contradict
ourselves?
Do my voices
slip?
I tire.
On my tongue
these fine desires –
lusty rasping.
Twisted?  Undone?
The world
that is the case,
bitterly.
(And if I bite
my master’s hand,
will he not know why?)
Will I ride
this rage
to the end?
Have I breath
enough?
Must...

Coherence begins
post festum.