A country road. A tree. Evening.
Two tramps meet and wait
For something that never arrives.
Just as everything depends on a
Red wheelbarrow
And Mrs Bloom screaming “Yes!”
Cracks the world into
Another dimension.
As Frankel sits within the fetid
Emaciated, stink of humanity
Searching for meaning
Amongst the hopeless
The desperate and the damned.
Just like the diamond-filled sky
Over marmalade trees and
Tangerine rivers which
Blight the dreams of the many.
For I am the walrus,
Goo goo ga joob.
The absurdity lies in the inaction.
For what if they searched for Godot
Or the wheelbarrow was blue?
If Mrs Bloom’s orgasm was silent,
Non-existent, an unknown Protestant pleasure.
That Frankel marched to his death
Shuffing skin and bones
Of the tattooed, hopeless, stinking throng.
For it’s not in the waiting
The absurdity of hoping
For a different result
That kills the lives of men.
It’s the never said I love you’s
The silent wanting
The thought that nothing changes
On a word, a look, a sign,
Which kills the dreams of many.
It’s the inactivity of waiting
That’s the saddest, most absurd
Utterly desperate action of all.
