And so,
continue along this rutted path,
overgrown with tangled undergrowth,
wort & porphyry knots
rocket and the sea grass
entwines red berries
and battered hollow inclined stick
on this blighted Savannah of tatty leaves,
and leave them meshed & mashed
by decay and dew.
There is nothing:
somewhere.
Prospect:
Anthracite unshined and dirt black,
Clogging every aperture,
Crevice,
And hole:
Unhosed for public consumption.
No sound or light to hear or see,
Just the wireless & Davy lamp:
Maid in Bangkok Sweatshop.
Half a house swap in Ithaca, Greece.
Escape this coal face;
Leave the pick & shovel:
Gerraway!
Yer Puggled.
Just for several months!
Then, back again:
Arsewisely.
You always bring your weather with you.
Me Too!
Everyhere you go there is a lot going on.
Same old, same old;
Except for the new stuff:
Off course.
Leaves in the
Wind:
Tinned
There’s a cannibal sun on the sky today!
Five and twenty Innkeepers evacuate themselves,
Public houses abandoned:sequestrated
By an oafish crowd of snotties.
Now, wankers only sup at the
Onanist’s Arms!
Grimbeau 