I feel a boulder on my nerves;
Brush of sticky imagination
Binds me to a pole of abstraction
As I watch these people
Glow like lawns in
palatial GRAs
Who seek for pleasure
but refuse labour.
The artist with an easel
in hand is the guide to a world afar
Brought close in the
memory that recognises.
Between dawn and streaks
of powdered sunlight
Between the dividing
waters on a stony path of rural murmurings
Stands the jacuzzi soul
that wakes in lavishment.
The morning offers
ambition into waiting hands of lazy jacuzzi people.
The sun shines on the
skin of the hardworking peasant
Whose memory basks
joyfully at nature's simplicity.
The jacuzzi souls have a
mind uniquely uniquely theirs
Perpetually troubled in
season of desolation --
Out of touch with a new
horizon that promises
Vistas of freedom. Give
them an ethereal delight,
Offer them a piece of
bread, a flagon of wine
And they can merry till
the break of day.
Jacuzzi people. . .
hardly have I uttered those words
Than when they stare at
me with questions
Dropping out of their
wide quizzical eyes.
They are like vapour
issued from a jacuzzi
They: the jacuzzi
people. They see and they
Do not see, thirst and
yet detest the call for liberty.
These are the measures
of an unused mind seen under the sun:
A jacuzzi treat for
pleasure-seekers who lean on wealthy fathers
Gives rise to lost and
lazy sons.
Extravagant spending is
only a reflection of the mind
Distanced from the
truths
Of life.
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