My friends.
Should I be afeared?
Should the thought of a woman's scorn
Dismay me greater than the thought
Of a body-mangling car crash?

Nay, my brothers!
A broken heart is far better
Than a broken skull!
(Such a profound observation!)
We must not be
Like foolhardy Siegfried,
Afraid to face woman,
Yet eager to do battle with dragons and
Other purveyors of probable death.

O lovely flowers!
I am drunk tonight,
Drunk like a stinking wino in piss-encrusted alley.
I represent the pinnacle of creation.
What other animal would turn to intoxicants
As a matter of leisure?
I am in the coils of glorious
Love me dearly,
My sweets,
Like some fumbling harlequin
Snared in a madman's comedy.
I am laughing, idiotic and my senses
Are dissipated
In the fog of jolly futility.

Yet in this stage,
I can still tell you
Of the wonderful creations of men,
Of music tasteful and rich.
Ah, Grieg!
You've been dear to me for some time now.
Six years at least.
Your music defies both academics and
Tawdry sensationalists.
Your piano works remind me of childhood,
An innocent childhood where everything
Seemed a miracle,
Where I could forget myself
And just sit
Amazed at a harmony I couldn't quite understand.
But which I understand now,
And love none the less.

My life is not
Such a tormented thing.
There are places I have yet
To discover.
Why can't I always
Feel this contented,
Be happy as I march forward
Into unknown regions?
Each new experience
Is an untapped promise,
And I am not as of yet
An old man.

There is a sense of infinity around me
Like that time I dropped acid,
A beautiful kind of infinity.
Time lingers on a quiet moment,
An unconditonal happiness
Which flows from
An inner tranquility.

It is good to eat salty foods
With glasses of beer.
Pete makes a Wicked red ale,
And Anchor a wonderful porter.
Though I am American by birth,
I am spiritually
A European concoction.
I love the finer things
Most Americans consider quaint:
Opera, rhyming poetry, Romantic music.
I am German and English:
I love Wagner,
Admire the rich and cultured works of British
Art rock musicians.
There's something missing here
In the Grand Ole' U.S. of A.
A kind of class that comes with age.
I do not doubt that we shall have a proud
Cultural legacy some day.
But we are young,
Like that foolhardy, naive Siegfried,
Chasing dragons
And blowing merry horn-calls
To prosperity and liberty.
But let us remember, as we age,
Some of that youth,
For youth is that which sustains the heart
As the body grows decrepit.

Must we always be made
Impervious to the wonders of a good thing
Once exposed at length to the stimulus.
Nay, I do not think it is so,
For there are some things
So wonderful and myriad in their variations
That they never lose their appeal.

The feeling is fading from my face.
I shall be
A stumbling, fumbling,
Reeling idiot tonight.
You ladies!
You are not here to witness my folly.
No matter.
I do not need you tonight.
I am complete in my own
Strange way.
Being complete,
There seems to be
No further
Need for outward expression.
I leave you all
For now,
For my
Brave new world of
I won't tarry long,
Just a brief night of bliss,
Then I will return to your
Trials and ordeals.

George Chadderdon © 1995