Pickled punchy
Monday morning sot
K2 ascension
trudge and huff.
Wind blusters, gusting away
remnants of claggy, stubborn night.
Wolf pack rampant roadmap
eyeballs throb in misty mirrror.
Brain damage limitation.
Fromage marshmallow ganglia.
Camembert opaque frosted
Yellow day.
…
Insurgent tree surgeons
gather storm broken
eucalyptus limbs.
Big cavernous rumbles.
Apple tree crumbles.
Head waiter fumbles,
stumbles, tumbles.
The tray vibrates
gawky albatross libations
part company with host,
comic crash slapstick pratfall
radical payload scatters
huddled throng,
babbling surprise looks on aghast,
desultory fat barman
fetches bucket and mop,
mumbling vacuous
‘Sorriesirs, Moddoms…’
glaring doom on prone
crone squirming,
yelping victim
plaintive noises,
just made jobless
in gin and debris.
Wanton crayon crimes christen hallowed books
Left about to make an impression
to go well with the curtains;
torturing the prize Siamese
just to hear its quirky hiss.
The smell of burning hair
that will be you one day.
This day, all day, every day,
but not forever.
One day you get yours
From the Orc
On level Chesil
Mud is the median
Of dearth and flood
In this Garden of
Earthly Detritus.
The Luisenpark Park:
little old boys playing
giant chess under obsolete
scarlet pergola
Right next to the practical
Functional, punctual Imbiss,
Come ride the lurid
primrose chain drawn rowboats
Judder and jerk through the claggy,
pissed off captive flamingos huddled on
a muddy spit
shivering under bleak gaze
submission
Resignation to the cold war grey
telecom tower.
It scares proud erect,
savoy green voluptuaries
flourish about the subterranean root
The rest is waste. A weedy, rotting hinterland
of winter ruin and neglect. As I wince a
black plastic sheet sneers at my disdain.
I lean defiant on the fork,
earth yields to the fronds.
Resistance assumes novel
steadfast lopsided defiance.
The year is shaping,
form finds content in
mulch and gunge,
from primal gloop comes novelty
Everything assumes a name:
Rose, Spud, and Daisy to name but three.
And this year’s offspring: Prim, Tatty, and Iris.
Pleasant thoughts to have for sure.
Looking forward to plenty more.
Signs of hope…
Bang!
I kid you not.
The dog just barked.
Here’s the cops.
kept from the saddle by sleep and cider,
nestled in this cluttered room, this dimlit
hibernation station, wallow fallow in
the gathered gloom, the afternoon moon
this is the time for those who dream in daytime,
those who gather and hunt, those who like me
watch from windows, making shade from shadow,
form from substance, the things that dreams are made on.