On a Reader of Dickens

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To read the unreadable and to
Do the unthinkable is the
Lesser sin when compared
To saying the unimaginable.
I opened a book from which the skeleton of a gecko
Fell out of closely snuggled pages,
Hitting the floor, making an echo.

Hidden to the shelf carrying volumes of
Clarissa and Pamela
I propose to make love,
But your sense of time and deed
Whisper in my displaced ear to
Enhance my speed; wooden pressure
In a musty room, in an afternoon
In a month where, in general, I come too soon.

Come too soon: and you hold out to me the book
Asking me to tell you the story.
On the hardcover in faded gold lettering:
“Bleak House”; “Charles Dickens”.
Dick stiffens. House is no longer home.
Ceasar is unceremoniously dethroned in Rome.
“Tell story. Got a short note to write”
And I sit down with you to break the night:

“There’s a lady in a bleak house who
Runs the annual drills again:
Opens the long shut windows,
Brooms, dust-cleans the panes.
Smothers year-worn cobwebs,
Airfreshens the must. Drains the pool of
Stale water, droppings, murky
Frog crust.

Runs the annual drills again:
This house is for sale.
Re-donns that syntheticly immaculate
Painted public face and
Smiles, throws hands most constantly,
Playing the tunes of this real estate industry.
The house doesn’t sell. Another year. Another year.
The ghost smokes in the library on the upper tier”.

So, “But, then, why does Dickens make
Such a deal of it?” you whisper.
That you got to go ask your teacher. And, there, then, I
Kissed her….. Nah — I kissed her not.
I kissed her not. (Cos, now,
I better watch out whom I’m kissing).
“Seriously I don’t know why Dickens is taught!”.
When there are others in time whom we are missing.

What you will do with your exam I
Really don’t know. But, you seriously got to
Let your imagination grow. Even the
Sadist ends with a whimper and a snort
And in life’s humbling run when you have given
All you’ve got, there’s no more to kill for,
No more to create pain. In disillusion alone
You realize your vain.



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