Friday, 25 November 2016

Brian Wilson and the Stranger

God Only Knows battles idle chatter,
steamy windows and steamy china cups
as damp raincoats clutter flaking windowsills,
and though he knows that he should focus
on the plot that is being dictated to him
by the seemingly omniscient narrator
he can't help but get drawn into the words
that resonate with his morose soul,
looking blankly at the hot tar
that swirls around in his clammy hands,
avoiding, above all else, those searchlight eyes.

He thinks about the end;
how the year has provided proof that the future
seems almost completely bleak
-though life would still go on believe me-
there is too much malice, egocentrism and hyperbole,
not enough verisimilitude, hope and identity.
Without that glimmer of purpose
that had illuminated his chambers for so long; well...
-what good would livin' do me?-
he'd almost prefer the prospect of uncertainty
than the certain desolation that awaits us all.

He stands up, cutting the chapter short.
Cold to the world, he makes for the door,
resolute in his plunge.
And a stranger holds the door open,
motioning to allow him through.

His icy heart thaws out
and the contempt that had encased his heart melts away
[proof for global warming, Mr. Trump, he thinks bitterly]
as his darkness is replaced by
an intense admiration for the potential of mankind.
-God only knows what I'd be without you-

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