WHOSE TRUTH.

MEN AND TRUTH AND BOOZE AND LIFE

You have no monopoly

on truth, says Daultil.

 

It wears a many coloured

coat; each one picks out

 

colours for their own cloth.

We sit like those in Plato’s

 

cave seeing shadows dance

upon the wall and think those

 

shadows reality and the fire

giving off flames some god

 

who cares. Daultil sips his

flask of booze. You watch

 

him lift it to his lips. His words

hang around your head like

 

flies about a horse’s eyes.

Glunk glunk goes his flask

 

lifted by him to take his fill.

He sets it down, wipes his lips

 

and says, Pilate never knew

the truth, he thought it just a

 

random choice of this or that

of this sad world’s philosophies;

 

he could not see beyond his

nose or dull thought’s reach.

 

You keep your silence, watch

as Daultil undoes the buttons

 

of his pants and pees, his fingers

having DTs shake the piss upon

 

his pants but he doesn’t noticed

or if he does he doesn‘t care just

 

lifts his head like some dozy bull

 and looks at you with vacant stare.