For Jaspreet Gill
(In memory of Arthur Schopenhauer, and his ‘divine’ sense of humour).
Dear Arthur, in your grave repose
I heard the laughter of the crows;
the murder of their sunny caws
was funny as the dinosaurs.
Dear Arthur, I’m a living ghost
who wills the world beneath my toes;
an actor corpsing at your pains -
a small banana skin of brains.
Dear Arthur, I have watched those stars
but, like you, never saw them laugh;
the pratfalls of my consciousness -
the playing of an empty house.