The hardest task of all …

Working out who is really 

wheelingly

wonderfully 

intentionally

on your wide

and ride

and side

is the hardest task of all.

And the toughest stuff

you ever

experimented –

but never relented 

and never borrowed,

nor went and horrified

nor terrified

nor scarified –

is when you realise 

the people who claim

to want to be your friends 

have attempted to end

your ontology

in a blurring of biology:

embrace your distress

as illness,

and give yourself up to the interests

of wider parties, they have said

over and over again.

And so the yardstick of truth,

the measure of ruths,

the litmus test of seance,

does intervene 

and interrupt 

the gorging eruption 

of facile justifications:

for there is nothing worse

than a woman or man

who peoples a life

with the hypocrisy of lachrymose.

Tears of leathered amphibian,

evolved to be at ease

in or out of the water deep and seeping:

reaping always the harvests

of reversed 

sensibilities;

those vacuous sensibilities

where humanity remains utteringly exhausted 

of all its strengths and speech and reach – 

and soul.

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