Quaff This Nepenthe

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Drink this kind nepenthe and forget…

Scratching through the slag
This now empty barrel of thought
Begging for the final crumbs
From God’s supper table
For one last glory run
It all seems bleak
Dreary and bleak
For what is a farmer
Without a farm?
What is a king
Without his subjects?
What is a mob
Without a cause?
And what is a poet
Without his rhyme?
He is nothing!
For his rhyme is him
And he is his rhyme
And when that metaphysical anus
From whence drops the pearls
The poets feeds upon
Dries up
What will be left
But a nonexistent entity
Who has lost life and vigour
Because he has lost essence
So I scratch

Swallow this kind nepenthe

It was under the hot
Baking African sun
Back bent and arms toiling
Turning over stone and sand
Searching for one last gem
But finding none
I cried through sewn lips
Looking to the heavens
For respite from my misery
And God heard
Dashing down on wings
Of finest feather
Her footfalls tinkled
On the flaming air
Her burnished arms bore
A bejeweled chalice
She put this to my lips
And said to me

Quaff this kind nepenthe and forget

And drink, did I
And I felt the fire
Course through my veins
Like a thousand gnu
On the Plains of the serengeti
The fire purged my fear
And fed me ardour
The fire purged my sorrow
And fed me resolve
The fire purged my essence
And fed me inspiration
I had swallowed the nepenthe
And I was reborn
Away she flew
On finest feather
With the bejeweled chalice
But the man she left
Was aflame with forgetfulness
For he had drunk
From the cup of God
And the ambrosia
Made him eternal

Quaff this kind nepenthe
And become as God

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