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Poetry: Politics



Quixote never wore armour.  What need
when all one really loves
                             are dreams?
What need, when, humanity perfectible,
the human heart becomes
a frozen posture;       the human eye
conventional;         the hands of men
gestures of spectacle sentiment?
Quixote never sought cover.
Why bother, when all one has to fear are
objects?               Why hide, when,
evil externalised, the fatal threat becomes
a rooted monster;   the fatal face
fantastical;  the final dance a minuette
of moralised iconography?
Quixote never took lovers.           No.
A vision is more enticing than either
a woman, or a man.                    So,
Quixote loved visions and, when forced
to chose,              chose not to.

No. Quixote never wore armour.  No lance
could reach him:  what need?   When all
one loves are dreams, there is no danger 
of wounding, except at night.
Quixote never took cover.  No shadow
could ever approach him,       why bother?
When all one has to fear are objects,
there is no menace in the subject, except
in reality.
               But, Quixote never took
lovers.  Who could bear humanity imperfectible;
the human heart revealed as immutable testimony
to trivialised visions;   the human face seen,
finally, as
                  the yawning furnace of every
obscene  unintention,      every grace except
the grace to forgive.
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