spittled

spittled

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