Rage How Sure

Cracked pot: upset chair—
Out of upstairs window stare
Must have been a stir out there
A wind blew
A telling gust
Nine Red leaves
brazen rust: spring glare

Après Ultra (New Ears Day)

New Grub Street records below for future delectation;
and on the ruby doorstep, a letter for Professor Phipps
containing a packet of pulverised sage
to keep the lonely onion happy
engaged in crazed seasonal endeavours
Festive lies.
A nuclear fog subsumes Trollenberg as
zombies fill the dishwashers
incanting the curses of Mali and
smiling on the memory of
Nkrumah’s regal foxtrot.

‘Maradonna’s dead’
‘Too bad, but what of wee Diego?’
‘Robust mudlarking,have no doubt.
Slicing dentures from washed up
concubines of the East Indian in
inky sepia drab.’

A crow observes from a tendrilled groyne.
All is muted, unspectacular.
Waters lap.
A heat pipe burps in fair Abrasia.
‘Will he wash?’
‘In good time, when opportunity arises.’
‘The crusty stench is beyond the daily luminal’
‘Poor wee Diego’

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