INTEREST IN THE TIME OF THE ORANGE-COIFFED BLUNTSKULL in The Amalgamated Aggromulator

The sole escape that really works,
the only thing that’s sweet:
a megrim of involved concern,
a fully-formed conceit.
I plumb the contours of the thing,
I puzzle myself gaily,
and while I am therewith consumed
I am not in the melee.

My spirit is not torn by dogs
while it is still my own.
And while I warp and weave and weird
I am not overthrown.
The poverty of That Man’s dreams
(‘Midst gold! Loved by poor men!)
is nothing against my poor dreams;
they make me whole again.

The puddling tilt is not my own,
or surely not just mine.
It’s not the thing, or no one thing;
there is no saving line.
Sometimes it’s gone - my eyes too clear,
too open to despair.
But in my books - my thoughts - my sleep -
in questions hard - in thickets deep -
in faerie tower and phantom keep,
I find it everywhere.
And then, though That Man is still here,
though it’s so hard to persevere,
while some damn thing is still not clear
I almost do not care.