with reference to beauty and Bosch
What counts as a disease among the pristine
dialectics of the cognoscenti? Who are they
anyway? Truth is not sterile like a debate.
Beauty is not summed up in an argument.
We who know less are abundant, yet do not
underestimate that truth is important. All
along the cloisters they have unsexed beauty.
How jealous our bodies are, and
our impoverished minds. Thought is not
the realm of the impotent scoundrels who
make off with our ideas. We are fertile like
‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’, capable
of a decadent liberty. Paradise was always
unlikely. Our faces are a collision between
desire and reality. We should wear them well
because beauty lies there in the advancing
slackness, in the mottled vehemence of age.
In the end we acquiesce, with or without
decorum; quiet like a new child, or in a rage
like Dylan. The grave is our companion, like
an interminable dog. It brings bones and offers
devotion to the void. Of course, we are afraid,
but it is a waste of time. Surely there must be
beauty in the truth of the inevitable?
Currently living in Argyll, Scotland with her partner, two children and a cat, Gillian Prew ditched philosophy in favour of poetry even though the former still haunts her. She has three collections of poems and has been published at Full of Crow, Counterexample Poetics, Gutter Eloquence, Gloom Cupboard, Fragile Arts Quarterly, 'ditch', and The Glasgow Review among others. She also recently became a 'Featured Artist' at Counterexample Poetics.