(In memory of Allen Ginsberg)
I have seen the greatest mansions of our age
standing on half land- half air,
harbouring half knowledge, half sanity,
half ideas, half tenderness,
half patience, half strength
and fragments of dejected souls
Mansions made of half bricks, half water,
half cement, half clay,
half sludge, half gibberish,
and powdered corpses of childhood-passions
Mansions painted with half regrets
masquerading as triumphs
Mansions built by and for sellers
of faded prints of their halves
and possessors of others’ quarters
Mansions that display
all those maimed possessions
Mansions that are half galleries- half houses
always open for a show
eager to absorb validation
as viewers gawk in half awe- half contempt
I have seen-
it’s the contempt that feeds the dejected souls
Until their hunger rises again for more
and when each more feels lesser than before-
They chase half enlightenment
bottled by half Gurus
sold by half humans
at their virtual stores
They rummage through an assortment
of recycled thoughts- before they pass out;
But when they are half asleep,
they dream of a sorceress
and her distant magick that is whole,
kneel before her-
and soak her blessed feet in tears
They ask, “O Goddess! Will I ever be whole?”
She roars, “Paint the canvas anew
Weave a new cloth
In an age of charlatanism-
find Magick
and Magick will make you whole.”