Tuesday, 30 October 2018



they do not see 
  out the back door 
in the back yard
the stone sheep 
or is it a flock of stones
that bleat the poem’s words
hoofing and sliding in the chicken shit
crowing on the fence

the spittled words hawked up
spat upon the palette 
trowelled as they dry
upon a line of thought
white sheets blowing on an island 
away in the outer somewhere
  windy       fresh

my sun-stroked mind swirls
as the page rears up like a banshee 
to drag the unready words
  not ready   not ready 

catatonic is my oeuvre
      set in lichen
upon the tombstone

who will gibber in the corner
clack-tongued in the dust
and call my words poetry

who will beat the railings 
  with stick words
all the way back 
to my childhood

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