Three days in port
and
crazy on land.
For all destinations are the same:
headlands and customs,
stations and cheap digs.
Over the way
Running round the park,
the leopards in the dark,
brushing our skin,
like dry, soft, well made
shaving brushes.
Seven brothers owned
seven separate farms:
while related,
they found themselves in quite
different fields
Event horizon out of sight
In dusk dissembling tobacco ochre
standard light.
I cannot see what is or is not to be.
Only others see hour hands slow down and catch
a halted final glimpse of this afternoon
Night collapsed outside my window
to sprawl the garden
legs akimbo
Mention of kedgeree, vindaloo, and
rotis spur me from my slumber of libraries,
edits, and re-writes: more painkillers
due soon, and more in process.
Waking dream…
Local pill-makers frantically
mixing and moulding in small manufactures
before the dark.
Soon night will fall and they must be
ready for the collection, or there will be
no money, and they will eat their
potatoes glum in worried,
tired, futile silence.
So, guilty as I naturally feel to be a burden,
it is good to know there is a purpose to my existence.
What would they do without me?
Perish the very thought, accept the claim:
every sod’s part of the main.
Limpid, floating fragments fill mind’s sky,
cotton clouded heavens obscure blue
firmament.
A good boy enjoys a sock on the carpet,
Heavy sighs.
Unmet, unseen life probably goes on outside
(I’ve heard persuasive reports on my radio,
pictures on the shiny electric signs,
indigo screens, and from droppers-in).
How distant is the edge of remote
Anyway?
Above then is it?
In dreams dossing.
After noon front room
back window out: look.
Still
salivating no orchids
heart aches behind me
Head
Eight
Sea bass had
lids low: fog
walls swell in.
put feet up…
Wear wooly hat
proud as trout.
rest a while.
Smoke gerunds
beforehand.
Still skirting the zone,
peeping over picket
fencing the pastures
of plenty beyond.
Thick lush grass
leaning and sworling
under weathering:
copious
chlorophyll
good goodness.
grazeworthy.
Plumes of scent eroticise the thronging masses
Gathered on the river banks
Who Swoon.
Love is the air
Posing on the pooper scooper
Rowing caressers dip oars in
The music of time:
Flutes…
Lutes…
Pipes…
Silver dipped sails billow. Below
punkahs wallah cupididly the fans.
Ruddered Graces – Nereids,
Drape golden richly perfumed cloth
Of gold
Whose scent
Wafts the dumbstruck multitudes
Asleep
Grimbeau 