Cleaning up the place for a move
And under a shoe in a musty corner
It wriggled and squirmed as it was exposed
My foot raised ready for execution
But there was a knock on my chest
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”
Like Fyodor, freed at the last moment
God, what a funny woman!
Like all women, incomprehensible to me
Asking all these pesky questions like
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”
Perhaps so, perhaps so, after all
You loved me when I was a worm
Crissing and crossing the grand ole jigsaw
An absurdly large puzzle that keeps on building
Pieces poured on the table early in the morning
Not knowing they are a part of a larger picture
They force themselves into spots that just don’t fit
They wonder why they have their bends and curls
There is certainly a place for a piece in a puzzle
But the pieces rebel and try to squeeze in harder
It really is no good for the puzzle or the piece
Some fall off the table and some get lost underneath
Eventually I hope all the pieces find the right place
I mean, what is a puzzle without all of its pieces
And what are the pieces without the whole puzzle
What a weird thing it would be to be a piece in a puzzle
What a weird thing it would be to be a puzzle with pieces
A weird thing if there were puzzles within pieces
When solved the pieces are finding their place in the puzzle
And even then what if the puzzle is never solved?
Jumbling up all the pieces for an ever expanding puzzle
And to that, I am truly and utterly puzzled
They say show, not tell, but even that they only tell.
But then wrapped up in a shell, it becomes entertainment hell.
Unseen metaphors are dead because “this is all there is.”
“What you see is what you get” is the thought.
And all you get is thinly veiled nonsense.
But then again… Either way.
It seems even when we tell, nothing is heard.
People hear if they want to hear.
What they want to hear.
I am, of course, no different.
I hear what I choose to hear.
This is inescapable.
So, it really doesn’t matter if you show.
It definitely doesn’t matter if you tell.
There is only a choice in reception.
Life does a lot of showing.
And still few see.
Sometimes I wish Life just told.
It would all be a lot simpler.
But even then… Perhaps less fun.
I tell so that I can show.
I show so that I can tell.
The rest is not up to me.
I tucked through an alley on a somewhat sunny day in Amsterdam,
Coming across loose dogs in an unsuspecting cobblestone arena,
One was ferociously strong with a black coat and mangey, twisted fur,
The other hound was snowy and clean with quick and silent paws,
Watching as the two go scrap for scrap over fishbones and trash,
Two different methods in this spirited streetfight of claws and teeth,
I cheered the white one as it seemed to be the right thing to do,
Kicking at the black dog that was so vulgar I couldn’t bare its sight,
But the white one protested and he bit at my exposed ankles,
To my surprise, I leaped backwards in hurt betrayal,
But the dogs simply resumed their fight with even more vigour,
And then a large grey dog came to my side and simply sat,
In his mouth was more fish bones that he threw into the fray,
Just looking on, as these enemies showed no mercy,
But the grey dog’s amusement made me ponder this sight,
Perhaps I thought it too simple and they were no enemies at all,
It could be that one is needed for the other to be,
Scrimmaging endlessly in these unseen battlefields,
Away from the busy eyes of human market streets,
A fun little boxing club among mates as they do their dance.