There is no point in travelling
when I see new places with the same old eyes.
I am not enriched by the experience
but attenuated, as my attention
is stretched to span the void
between where I was and where I am.
All I do is make connections
across a lifetime of repetitive strain
to form similes that are at least apt,
albeit imperfect, which may hold
some theoretical reader rapt
for the length of a few contrived lines.
And so I describe the fractured folds
of mountain rock as a toppled pile of pitta bread.
The rolling banks of hillside
remind me, though far less lush,
of a greengrocer’s shelves, covered
by a swathe of artificial grass.
A gaudy cavalcade of sky follows
close behind, like a troupe of carnival trailers
full of dancing girls, performing
a vaudeville bump’n’grind
to the tune of ‘Night and Day’
played on a gipsy violin, for added colour.
Somehow, I live with the clamour
and clutter of unwanted images that overlay
my vision of each pure vista
with distortion, dubious recollections
and a miasma of synaesthesia,
for they are the price of my pretension.
