I can be sloppy. Or voluptuous.
Or given to worship. Whatever is
that would make me ordinary,
social, mild. I wouldn’t write, be
mutinous, wouldn’t rhapsodize,
wouldn’t be pompous, overarching.
Would I be less then, dessicated,
steeped in fog? Would I be of
better use? Would you love me
any less? Dispersed into wind,
would my soul sink? Wouldn’t I
not be cheap, imitative?
You’d not draw the veil but
wear it. C’est n’est pas une pipe.
Wouldn’t you rather be stuffing
tobacco into a wooden pipe?
That’s how scented, the weed gets
into you and you’d truly snort.
You must be familiar with René Magritte’s C’est n’est pas une pipe. Means “this is not a pipe”. What he meant is it’s a representation. But isn’t the drawing so realistic? Yet it is not a pipe in real life. It is really a symbolic thing, not a real thing. But isn’t language itself symbolic? Is it then not real? Because it’s abstract? Where does real authority come from then? Why does language behave as a real construct then? We already know how arbitrary it is. Yet we need to name things for them to exist for us, don’t we? Don’t we? So that being so, is the world really a construct? That we can deconstruct? What does this say to you? What about poetry? Isn’t it a kind of thinking in images? Perhaps reality is a pipe dream after all. *snort*