Frame Fame (twisted game)

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I wrote this October 2017.  It got re-worked and entered into a poetry competition 27th October 2017.  Then, today, for the first time in my life, this difficult set of circumstances behind this poem, which I write around much more often than write of, became acknowledged somewhat.  And coincidentally, the poetry prize people, sent me an e-mail saying my poem did not make their shortlist (out of eight hundred high calibre poems, I more or less knew it had no chance, especially since its content is difficult to say the least, and the word count long, and the style of writing I don’t want to comment about since my intent was that it be un-nerving, which ought not make for a smooth read), and that therefore, I am allowed use it elsewhere now, as of today.  This is a sign.  At least for me in my head, the sign is clear, perhaps . . . , well perhaps what is weird need not be stated now, about how there are specific elements in the content of this poem, which differ from my usual endeavours to convey the same story, and by coincidence today, before reading my e-mails, that exact content related exactly with some kind of awkward acknowledgment advance, which my receipt of enables me place this poem here now.  And here now today, advanced as I am with certain minded emphasis, that whatever I have said and will be having to say, about the man I have mentioned in a few locations in this website, (and whose insistence upon receiving all the positive attention possible from my every action tends to bend my poetry into writing about his consequences rather than about normality), never could have amounted to myself blaming any other man with what I say about that one man.  And if I become alike him, by describing him, all the more evidence of what he did.  Hi there then, W**** C*** W******, or whoever next you were putting to the task of reading what I write.  If you can’t even be bothered observing me, but put another onto that task, and somebody you set up into seeking only the worst possible interpretation, well be that upon your head without myself even having needed say so.

The Frame of Fame Never Claimed

Whatever that hand behind I will no name

Within his self defined expletive of fame
Perhaps there might have been need

Of such words as deride and sustain
The loss of dignity of such as was game

Because he tried make of himself
A brother like no other asshole in stealth
But has confused his self for his health
And forgotten God is in command even in wealth

Albeit money fails the memory of God’s one stance

Thus some asswipe’s all became measure of many falls
Unable say “no” to his call resistance yet stands true and tall

And one day when we unknowing all became his last chance
To prove what he taught be not how all men might have
Fallen out of Love’s favour quite strangely enhanced
With the furious glamour of otherness he had

As if to prove he made not the ball
That continued rebounding in every head for
As long as we wait upon his evidence bad
And him to get his own mind read we presume sad
Knowing it not conscionable to be him and be glad

Neatly defined by his own understanding dense
Being brother like no other himself he spent

We learn we all might need yet insist

In the chance that life is lived inviolate

Even as wife unto his hand rendered quiet
And money naught but his own self spam
While in free fall still it is that

The individualist’s God of all our collectivity
Of pantheist animist and even Islamic seeds
Of understanding all the whole community be
Greater than the sum of each single part like me
In the very state of grace of faith in God
The brother like no other imagined as if no more was
Than strange self consuming pirana crocodile dog
Only to find that since inviolate I still now am
When we spend money and get change
It is always and still the very same

That money’s only expense was the imperfect defence

Of the purchasing sweet of money’s true defeat
We can’t buy back our brains as was money’s false claim

But of getting less for more
Finding the worth of the poor
There be insights within
How money did begin
That with only just the small change
The poor did rise again and again

By mere contemplative accruement of
The thought that by money accumulating
The end game of evermore forever was
Coming nearer and nearer as if in an

Apolcalypse none but Isiah might have first decided
Upon turning economic worth into the myth of who it was first

Who thought up how money’s fact made us all foul
When the smallest coin known can carry the dream well honed
For which the millions and billions of the rich
Have found philanthropy’s illbegotten pitch
As their only means by which to believe
They themselves not fallen any harder than me

And all the while I’d not want the throne
Or by all and sundry become known
Since the penalty of every cent to pay
Was money’s lack of truth’s way
That need you and me both we take heed
Of these thoughts my words now seed
That money’s manipulative bill
Never keeps itself enough still

Still enough that its measure is by will
And with my own small five cents
Found while he glanced not upon city pavement
Whole economies might pay Spiritual rent
Yet I’d not frighten men into becoming more bent

Hence if freedom we can command
The choice of less money is noble and grand
And thus I write this poem alone
Traveling by public bus back home
Where nothing doing is grown
And I advise you all the same bone
Never by money to become known