In the Land of the Blind

 

In the Land of the Blind

 

Behind the mask, behind your screen,

something sits, clandestine,

repugnant and with noxious sting.

Not every spider lurks in corners,

casts webs or scuttles across carpets:

some observe, inspect, store what’s said

bound in silk, for some time later,

to be digested at leisure once dead.

Out of eight, it needs only one good eye

the rest deployed to mind the threads,

they can sense vibrations, touch, taste,

but never feel the need for haste,

when there’s rope enough and time.

What possesses you to be possessed,

is anybody’s guess. To be collected,

inspected, held up, exposed to the light,

groping for purpose with lack of sight,

a facsimile of life with grubby borders.

Spray yourself on concrete in watercolours,

for gaudy seconds, in gimcrack drips,

wither negligent in crimson crinoline slips,

drag up in chains or dress in furs,

bray like donkeys or howl like curs,

then beat your chests like monkeys do:

it’s all the same. In the land of the blind,

what will that one-eyed king find?

Under trapdoors with strong silken springs,

spiders spin gossamer all knowing.