Searching

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.