Ocelots
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"Ocelots"
It was during that time
they all decended into the lush fields of poetic madness,
swaying indolently with the other tall green poppies,
who for once in their small lives basked in noticeability,
their blooming heads bending into each other -
they didn’t require pollinating, they were ardently self-prophecising;
the stings of bees had been smoked out, yet their scent of meady Ganga hung about,
peace had fallen it would seem, for once, over the garden
while the praying wolves slept, the endangered ocelots watched on
noticing all the other hidden black spots, not that well-cameoflaged,
which they decided for once in their hunger to avoid and not kiss;
the gardeners remained marching around their tiny Eden, censoring like patriots with their shears,
trimming sharp paraphrases and binning them swiftly like hedge cuttings for compost
into the burning pit with all the other trash, that had somehow to their shock and consternation,
seeped in amongst the rarefied, and had of all things, the gaul to present festering ripe and wonderful words and thoughts like exotic weeds which were wasted on the inept like caviar pearls
before swine, the taste of different and unique was judged by the possessors of short sentences,
to be too lengthy and hirsute, and thus, the court with their sheep
decided to bludgeon the poesies adorned with their strings of fresh water pearls weighty length,
it was considered prudent to cut them to the ground, keep them dead, vanilla tasted much better,
while the mispelt read, bled dull and sweet;
like Rumpole at the Ole Bailey, the gardeners administered their strident
and refined educated duty to censor anything different or wonderful,
for they were deemed to have the rite of way to do so -
in their pockets of manure, they planted the disgarded words and meanings of unwanted others
like precious jewels, the forgotten glinted sharply, but they never again took firm root
those seeds required to grow Eden amongst the common green Poppies who all shook
intoxicated with their standard opium thoughts, tittering on and on eternally
about their adoration for each the other’s vulgate bless’ed thoughts;
while the praying wolves slept, the endangered ocelots, noticing all the hidden black spots,
were now very deep into the well red mispelt, and floating like globes of opalescent wisdom -
the endangered ocelots
took notice of all,
and watched on
Candide Diderot. ‘25
Copyright © Candide Diderot | Year Posted 2025
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