Temple of Baal, Jenolan Caves

A good friend of mine seems to like this pome, and when I learned that it made me make a few changes. I don't usually put my pomes on the Blogmanac, but what the hey.

Temple of Baal, Jenolan Caves

Well, I finally felt that I'd stopped all that driving
as we stepped into the Temple of Baal, like a dream.
And a dead feeling lifted,
something inside of me shifted,
and it seemed he was looking down at you and me.
Baal looked down the universe at you and at me.

I'd still like to know if that archangel's wing hanging
all frozen in time, like a carving on a tomb,
was there at Creation,
or if my imagination
was taking me back to some kind of infinite doom,
back through the temple's bright pillars and gloom.

Do I carry that meaning, that presence of daemons
when I say they're precisely what's bringing you down?
Do you think that it's better
to live life unfettered,
by misery? Or do you think that my mind is unsound?
Do people miss in the sun what they see underground?

What is it about me that brings that stuff out in you?
It dun't bring it out in me.
Or anyone else for that matter.
What's up? What's the matter?
What's wrong? The past is the past, let it be.
I might as well talk to the foam on the waves of the sea.

We hit the high road like Bonny and Clyde, at least in our minds.
Harrrr!!! Kerouac and Dorothy Lamour, I dunno,
I dunno if it was me that was Bing or Bob or was it Jack,
and whether you were Dorothy or Kerouac,
but we weren't in Kansas no more, that I know.
That's the one bloody thing for sure that I know.

You know that my memory, it's a joke, yeah a joke,
you laugh at the new stuff I've already forgot.
And though you laugh at it often
I've already forgotten
what got us tied up in all of those knots.
Those crazy untieable knots.

And I can't remember half of what we said or where we went.
But I won't forget the Milky Way and how it made you swoon.
Or that motel. You know I won't.
You can say that I will, but I won't.
I'm glad that the night didn't have too much moon,
a blaze of stars then the eruption of the waning moon.

Don't damn me, don't brand me, don't try to understand me.
Don't think that if I walk a fine line between telling
and keeping shut tight
that I care for a fight,
or that my line between telling the truth and a lie
is as wide as that highway, 'cause it's not. I would die.

There weren't any roos on that road, not even dead ones,
but I've got that picture of you underneath a wildlife sign.
I took it at night
and the burning flashlight
illuminates nothing, I'm still left in the dark,
like the Temple of Baal, like the rooms of your heart.

I'm not used to this kind of narrative twist.
I'm not in other people's fantasies, they're in mine.
So that's what it feels like!
I'm not sure that I like it.
I'm practised at getting hurt when my dreams implode,
but I feel a lot worse when I see someone sprawled on the road.

Do you think maybe something deep down in the Temple,
some magic, some ancient ritual could fix everything here?
I'd submit if it could
but you probably would
say that I just wasn't being sincere.
And whatever I said, you wouldn't hear, wouldn't hear.

Along the road past the memories and Moreton Bay figs
past the pelican waters and the tall Norfolk pines,
past the hurting and dreaming,
the drama and healing,
there's a place like that motel where you're doing just fine,
where never shall be that old you and me,
but with both of us just doing fine,
with both of us just doing fine,
and understanding will come in its time.
In its time.