Debris
Asteroid wind? Invariably
mumbled with final
words as the
first – microbic coagulation?
In curdling sludge
admiring itself
among still
inarticulate stars. Poetry such stuff?
Cast-iron antiqued
colander, on board
woebegone small
radishes, waiting in vain for
their pa. Or loftier
dreams: flayer-toothed jaws
whose breath is
all too rank for fire not
to spurt out. Flit-spray,
yes! that’s what poetry is
carrying on inside
wardrobes under lock – bugger
off man, had
you but stayed a moth-eaten atom...
The
close-fitting, cut-in-one meaning worn out
by lightweight crease-linen
Sunday-bakers,
being seers of
all and more, on own word of
honour. Does
poetry keep itself cometically high like
a goose above Ooy?
The spark lights up come-down
darknesses, black
mendicant nuns piss there
on grey rocks
forever floating through the universe
cramful of
exalted thoughts on the frailest wee
blossoms. Earth
meanwhile lies toiling and
moiling at its test
paper while a fat failure
rises to the
zenith every day, panting
heavily; our
blessèd mummy who purl and plain
knits away at
the woolly coms of time.
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