Waiting on pork sausage
We were forced to skelt
willy-nilly
for mute sanctuary from
tampons confounded take on fern hill.
Tea was derationed today in fifty two.
Five eggs variously
boiled Mohr’s scale by Nanny Charperson.
Is it safe?
Can we come out?
Chai or Cha, your High Chairness?
We emerge and return
Waiting for pork sausage
Green and dying in our chains
Ding-a-Ling.
Coming up for Noon:
Chicken & fish purchased by Poll.
No knobby-curse, no hobby-horse…
ham & eggs ate listening as…
big con speaks: poor as piss, full of shit.
After this, fearful prospects – complex phantom
horrors hidden behind the gun-ho noises
of the head boy’s gobhead, a quake
of vile thoughts sent me, suddenly weary,
back to the warmth of my duvet.
For better, Heaney’s Beowulf bolstered my warm bed and stark head
until half three: silent, dozing, sleeping,
perhaps dreaming,
phone calls were ignored. Then up to find the house empty and open,
closed and locked the cold back door.
Ponder
Lost orange months,
Gone like quicksilver fish,
Their trails, fading, once were fragrant
And purple
At the jukebox
With a timid demeanour
Behind purple drapes
They, with needles and pins,
Listen to Sontag
On the blue rock
Of a lapus lazuli
Under western skies
We, our feet caked with soot,
Dance like idiots
here
is a stillborn,
grey still, day:
a
day to
get lost on the wing.
shivering
in
cold sog:
awaiting
a
long hot shower:
four hours
dreaming
steaming
Glisten
Sheer sparkling wit,
wild infant crazy hopes,
whose voices, too true, call to us all
like spooks
Waiter!
Bugsplat the soup it’s toxic and orange.
Deft, nimble, fleet of foot, cunning as Ariel,
Waiter swoops and swats the soup.
Everyone is splattered and grumble.
Did you get it, did you get it?
Yes, they got it. Look at them leg it
For the turnstiles.
So,
we
offer up
these
well-prepped
ants testes
to you
gods
of the
firm
ament
for
the
fecund
ditty
of this our
crop of love
age.
Be nice
for this
once,
we
have grown
tired
of
Near One
Undone
You won
Old Son
Grimbeau 