by grimbeau


Who will be King of the Mountain?
The spurts and dramatic surges
come fast and furious
from behind the drunken camera,
red mist clouds mingle
obscure a bloated moonlit summit—
unclenched by rarefied daylight hours,
curtains pulled on damp khaki trousers
forelawn it lies the grasses billow,
a potted pear tree is quick felled,

Provenance: grown from seed
by lusty Cecelia it now lolls
flopped on the worn out bird table.
Nasty shock on awaits some
due to freakish start— bowels unmoved,
face unshaven, body stale as bread.
Suffered well earnt defeat on the board
snapped mixing with lower portholes—

that going over last night lingers, brushed aside
like the fly I brushed away
at the top of the knock off swelter
of my fish supper two days back now.
Who will be the king of the world—
not I today, not me.
too smart for the likes of me
stuck up a churchyard yew tree naked
as a birdman trying to figure out where
it all went so very wrong again — put it gown
to the form of the day birdbrain