I am climbing up the poets

I am climbing up the poets

I am climbing up the poets,

hammering my piton words

into the gasps of their stuttering,

sparking my crampons against

the overhangs of their mountainous 

talent, fighting without the oxygen

of their intellect, I struggle upwards,

the view over each mind a vista of

surmise and surprise at how rarefied

the gin clear air of enigmatic thought

is at such altitude. Throwing off the

guide ropes of the leaders, without

point I scramble up the scree of

shifting words, sifting the orientation

of the gravity of my situation of the 

understanding that what is beyond

and above the viewpoints of those

below, I will attain the nirvana of a banana,

and they say ‘how profound’ he is

for I am on solid ground now,

the clouds are my armchairs,

blue my horizoned eyes.

Casting down the safety ropes

I slip the crampons and abseil out,

and out, down and down, upon the drug 

of ages. Plummeting through history I

arrive in poet’s corner to be interred 

immemorial by those who forgot the summit

and buried themselves in my words, and

in the autumn of their desire, they

never flew away except upon my words;

bar one, or maybe two, who started the climb

to a summit higher than time itself.