I’m often in a reverie
Of things I’ll do hereafter –
As if the deed’s already done
And I am merely calling back
A favoured, coloured memory –
Embezzling the impetus
That would have birthed the actual act.
It saves me quite some effort, this.
Were I to marshal energies
For every ping that shakes my heart
And makes me tap and pull and swipe
My faculties of fertile flair,
Would I not find myself in want
When on my desk I pull my hair
And nothing else will come with it?
If I can wrest contentment from
A mere hour of fancied flight,
And thereby save a year’s regret
Of why at all I started, right,
Am I not in the profit still?
Our culture urges urgent action,
Damning those who sit and dream,
And through the plastic dreaming, choose
The act that so consuming is,
It effortlessly overspills
Into the realm of actioned beings.
Who knows, perhaps, our culture’s right?
And you are right to call me names –
A lazy loser languishing,
A wise-ass wasting willingly –
And I am wrong to spend my days
In energetic ennui,
Denying all the professed fruits
Of my invested venturing.
But grant me this: do I not gain
A workshop from my idleness?
So what if it’s the Devil’s own?
Do I not get a place to craft
My fancies into daily art?