Poetry By Christopher Bernard

The Drunken Philosopher
By Christopher Bernard


I drink to the moon
staring up at me
from the face in the puddle
of mud at my feet.
And behind the face of the moon
reflected in the mud
is the entire universe!
A haze of little stars
salt and peppered in dazzling sparks,
infinitely, down to the bottom of the world!
And there also
hee hee! –
is my face!
Hello, face!
Hello, universe reflected in the sumptuous mud!
Hello, mindless, soulless, beautiful moon!
Oh let me die
and all the world perish
between two breaths in my sleep.
Let everything vanish between two beats of my heart!
One day I shall cease to be, moon!
It will be no time for humility then – no! – I’ve
had it with modesty!
I will die as I have lived – arrogant, proud, insolent, conceited!
I will have no time for good manners and politesse!
You will not like it, God!
Well, what are you going to do about it!
I denounce God! I hail sun, stars, moon!
I hail my fellow mosquitoes,
buzzing blithely in the deliciously foul air above the mud pool!
Mosquitoes are my brothers!
We all buzz about in a confusion of lust, fight and anger,
aimless, random, driven,
then into the nearest sewer we dive. Tant pis! Tant mieux!
I toast you, mosquitoes! I toast you,
blind, deaf moon! Hail, moon!
And stars! And sun! And sky!
The metaverse that was and is and shall be forever!
One day I will cease to be, who am, now, alive!
Three days later, on his way to his favorite café (and drunk, as usual),
the author of the above poem was hit by an Uber driver.
On the ambulance he was overheard laughing to himself and saying,
in an excited whisper: “. . . who am, now,  .  .  . !”
He died on the way to the hospital.
The morticians had a difficult time removing the rictus from his lips.
Christopher Bernard’s new collection of poems, Chien Lunatique, is forthcoming from Regent Press.

One thought on “Poetry By Christopher Bernard

  1. Why did they have to remove the rictus? Leave it, for authenticity.

    Chris, I still want to write a piece on you in the near future, I just need to gather more familiarity with your oeuvre so that I can write it with aplomb & competence. You are a craft / artisan writer in an age of increasingly artless text messagers who see writing only as a means to an end rather than an end / goal / career / calling in & of itself. When people like you are no longer around, we will know civilization has collapsed or gone into hibernation. You’re like the amphibians of the cultural ecosystem: the sign that it’s healthy. When the frogs vanish, you know the environment is poisoned.

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