Who Am I?

You are a spot on the nose of life’s complexion yet also a picture of pure affection to shine a shoe to the tip of perfection, a ripple in the river of the universe’s reflection.

Look on towards the hills of shining shoes and rivers running – expel thy heart into an institution of suspension.

Out of work for reason of a small indulgent drink no more salt among the pepper shakers and the matchstick makers not a dime to the seamstress with torn fingers nor a kiss on the hand by a man whose perfume lingers in the thin air in which we breathe, sadly diseased by one already deceased.

Look upon me with a slow eye, ye, who is cock-eyed, who smiles within a pool of his own brine ye old swine.

Run your wind of optimism for I race you.

I race you to the farthest ends of the world to deepest of seas where even you cannot blow away the sun shining, smiling, why are you always smiling you swine? Grinning like a bob cat, your children have all left you.

 Your wife despises you. Are you mad?

Why do you smile, swine? So asked the guard who guards the gates of Guard in the Guardington gardens among the gardenias where I guarded my gourd of cheese.

You see, good sir, somewhere under this earth lies the bones of a man or a woman who died smiling, why do I smile, you ask. Well allow me to answer you as I sip on my whiskey, ditsy dipsy doo, toodle loo, my good sir.

I’m very silly, you see I’m a big baby who cries and moans but I have no mother and I have no father so who will tend to me? The world of course and that is why I smile.

Yes, I am only a freckle on the cheek of life’s complexion and to earn my keep I shine shoes to perfection so well you will see your own reflection but I am very well-known and I live on the streets.

The children fear me run from those who flee like birds who see the rest of the world and travel to earn their keep in worms and warmth by the hearth, I have no hearth.

I kindle a fire using rubbish and eat bread left and forgotten on the street, who is me who flees to seek other things aback a mangy donkey that lives with me as a friend more than any other I have never known, shown or thrown down a gutter in a fight of fists and jests and many other little things.

This drink of wine and brandy keeps me warmer than any sunshine that has ever shone.

I might die today or might die the next day, a year from now or a decade when I’m all feeble and grey but just like many other things I have lived and I have loved and I don’t regret a day of it, not a single day.

Do you fear death, young man? I asked the guard who guards the gates of Guard in the Guardington gardens among the gardenias where I guarded my gourd of cheese that had been curdled in this very town of Guard.

No, I live to die just many another.

Just like any man and any woman and child and any infant.

Death is death and death is inevitable just is birth and just is life.

Everything will die and so will this world. The sun will die and so will this town.

The king will die as will the one of this and the one after that and all of them thereafter. Death is the only ruler of the world as nothing can defeat it. Death is king and is queen and royalty and death is prince.

Death will eventually devour everything in its own time and its own place, with its own devices at its own pace. Why fear something that will take us all; some faster than others like you before I, you old, delusional swine.

Said the guard who guards the gates of Guardington gardens among the gardenias where I guarded my cheese that was curdled in this very town during the summer many months ago while it silently snowed.

You know, young sir, good sir. You greet me with insults like I have done something to disgrace your heaven-like grace and your angelic face. You are a very handsome man as I am sure you have no doubt. I am sure you are constantly praised and appreciated by our good king who will eventually die, just like all others, me before thee of course, my minor majesty. What honour it has brought me to converse with a man such as thee who is gloomy, glum and dressed very sharply.

You are a sad little man, good sir. You speak as though you know, sir, you speak as though you are clever.

Indeed I have never been to school like thee but I know that you are indeed very blind yet you can see.

Before you speak, before you argue with me, listen as I make myself clear; death is not the end.

If you are a Christian then you should believe in the afterlife and the life after that because why would God waste his time creating something will only die? If you are not, then your life and its philosophies are a game of gnip-gnkop and hop-scotch.

I answered to the guard who guards the gates of Guardington gardens among the gardenias where I guarded my cheese that was curdled in this very town during the summer many months ago while it silently snowed for this is the town in which I was I born, many, many years ago.

How simple an action but the idea is so complex it is truly off-putting the subject of putting thought to action.

It is dust where we are as the argument carries on like the brawling of father and son.

One is wise and one is stubborn each one is entitled but neither are correct, bless them dear souls as the sun is lowered into the horizon by the moon using an pulley invisible to the eye sight so clear to man so blind and bland, bless you, young sir of the guard, like two large celestial bodies we are drawn to each other yet we are miles upon miles apart.

I’m not sure if I’ve managed to touch your heart but you definitely opened mine, in one way or another but I hope we cross paths again shant death make its mark upon our conjoined breasts, mine first rather than yours of course for you have much to learn by the clock of time and under the watchful eye of death as you so cultivate in your depressing views.

You will never find happiness if you are so glum, I bid thee farewell.

I said to the guard to who guards the gates of Guardington gardens among the gardenias where I guard my cheese that was curdled in this very town during the winter many months ago while it silently snowed for this is the town in which I was born, many, many years ago in the town of Guardington whence it was covered in snow.