Sunday, 16 March 2014


I shall not beat about the bush,
There's no such thing,
What's stylish about a messy human life?
We're born in blood and mucous and in pain,
Squeezed into the world a helpless thing,
A puking, squealing scrap of great potential,
Availing our selves, with luck, of what's essential,
In response to the great impulse to sustain.
What is an infants "lifestyle" but existence?
And when does style attach itself?
Is subsistence life, alone, without the style?
So that the choices one would make if one could,
Count for nought in summing up a human being?
We make our choices, state our preferences, it's true,
Obsess, enthuse, sometimes imbue,
Our objects of desire with great importance,
But that is habit, merely our perception,
A set of thoughts acquired through instruction.
Cultural or fashionable ideas
Which pass, as tides pass through us,
Leaving flotsam on the shorelines of our minds,
Which might take many decades to decay.
Yet we live in separate moments of each day,
We comb the beach, finding recurring themes,
And thus we make our choices,
Recognising things we've seen before, their voices
Speaking more clearly. Yet in dreams
We might be startled to awake,
Hearing, seeing there expressed such unfamiliar notions
Our unconsciousness seeking to contradict,
To shake us from our certainty. Our emotions,
Our responses to these inner questions often fearful,
But this does not imply our minds are closed.
So why are we so disposed,
To classify, to make our summations,
Believe in trends and social statistics?
Each man is himself, has his own characteristics,
Separated each from the next in subtle gradations.
We cannot generalise,
Nor should we seek to,
We are not manufactured and we change,
Sometimes acquiring new,
Sometimes seeking to rearrange
Collections in our heads,
Which shape the things we say and do.
The way we live our lives is not our style,
The pillars which support us not Corinthian, Ionic,
The tracery of our thought scribbled, chaotic,
Whichever way we're pointed, we're not Gothic.
What makes us who we are is complicated,
Only those who welcome fashion,
Lovers of camp, not interested in substance,
Could think in terms of 'lifestyle',
And yet they seem to run the world,
And wish to fit us to their moulds,
Dismissing, what's unique, worthwhile,

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