Oxen stare out
ankle deep in mud
catch a flaxen
burst of lux gold sax.
The procession nears:
Madame Charcot,
her Footmen,
borne by
mute lace makers.
They pass,
Waving waxen,
lit by Tilley Lamp
and near full
plumb
moon.
Here to replace
the sleeper.
Then
After that
Matins and Martini.
Misery lurks in the long grass,
armless and still,
like good gone west.
No post today
Blog and door.
Busy
being unknown by
and to the outside world.
Inside
howsoever
the world was
mad hectic:
sitting reading, eating,
staring, smiling, scowling,
snarling, sighing, tutting
spitting, speaking, saging,
mulling, musing, chuckling,
nodding, turning, snooping,
slurping, sighing, smoking,
standing, stepping, shaking…
That’s Quite Enough
words commencing
with ‘s’ for now.
Clouds over,
have a grey
smoke – good is
always too
good to last.
Glanced at this
‘…golden words
turn to dust,
war makes you
platitudinous…’
Thinks: Duckbill
Platypus.
A boring
genius
scatters wise
word seed on
stony ground.
Duck Bill sees.
Eats them quick
before the
blue parrots.
Slips back in billabong.
Polygon.