Is it you
upending the beginning?
Yes
And – by the way –
How’s your head?
Dead
dirt dust
fine talc
How’s mine—
is she there?
Is she
the quiet one
in the corner pulling
on a woodbine
stogie?
Yes.
Smoking woodies bare boobed,
hairy chest stark summer sun,
short sleeved bri-nylon pastel
shirt open brashly to the waist,
walks staccato on buggered feet,
thinking god knows nor cares what.
Buddha-like inscrutable archetype.
Head full up cranky wonky dreams
…
Leaf’s thoughts in the
sunken garden late
good friday afternoon, as he
with pre-stressed concrete-
like neck & shoulders; tired eyes
bloodshot from catch-up daytime
sleep from a bad night remembered
that kept her up all night; killed the
dead time with gimmicky schlock
horror film at three, copious lurid
cartoon blood oozing from every pixel,
aware of skull cap thinning
wildly, itchy unkempt beard,
a wretched sight altogether to behold.
So, Leaf sat facing the late low sun,
toyed with jet trails and midges
crowding the sky, teatime birds
come and go, stopping to perch for
a last warm on the naked rowan,
and head off, out of the cold, indoors
to manic evening nests, Leaf too went
back indoors because it was still there.
Mason Wells survives his third bombing; random business this life. Populations swarming here there and everywhere. Radical fluctuation, rapid shifts in direction, some weird algorithm, brown patches on cows…get the washing in!
Time bumbles lopsidedly
Westward murkrays entomb shade
six-forty Pull the blinds close to home
Call it a day…Day! Ninety eight not in;
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
is
born in 1918
& still lives
Today in
2016
Beat that!
