oh no ~ you’re not clever

 oh no ~ you’re not clever

these are not clever words of yours

showing off words show you up

the mountebank’s magic potion

for 

these words are not yours

they have been on other tongues

down the ages

that have said things

that you could never imagine

no

the laying of these words is a borrowing

artificial intelligence before it was re-invented

all and every thing (translate ‘thing’)

was integrated into the tegument of your thoughts

from just being here there and everywhere 

no

you are not clever

so don’t think your last poem

this poem

is the epitome of your cleverness

for we can see through you

even if we cannot see through ourselves

for

the mind is a bingo machine of words

bald words that carry the weight of a full house

if only one could tick-off all of the boxes

on the tombola of this blank page

which of course is an insatiable white hole

although the clown just falls apart

we remember his smile

long after the master of ceremonies 

has hung up his top hat 

pinned up

 pinned up

curled

torn at the edges

the pinups 

on the back door of my mind

timed in their fading

by my smiling

miles back 

mist-shrouded and 

very very naughty 

i could have sworn

she smiled back

the saw cuss

 the saw cuss

stick lipstick

the frown of the clown

has let you down

gently

the car explodes

time and time again

the trapeze artist

paints the sky

everything hangs

the sanderling’s maybe

 the sanderling’s maybe

limpets flotsam and boats

upon the tides of history

not even the rocks endure

taking the limpets with them

storms the boats into flotsam

beliefs into froth

at high tide the iguanas

at bottom water the rock fools

there in the lulls thought floats

its smears oiling in the sun

then they turn

the tides of everything

sanderlings’ maybe

maybe not

someone

 someone 

right now

is writing the verse

that will bring these bastards down

that will exchange our hearse

for their tumbrel

that someone 

right now 

maybe you

write now

a bombshell

 a bombshell

here we have it 

overhearing a literary conversation

when literally the bombs are falling

everywhere 

here you have it

this explosive statement

discussed ad nauseam

dissected by fingers writing in the dust

and having writ refuse to move on

to where the bombs are falling

obliterating their thoughts 

into a blast of alliteration 

the fissile missiles are stencilled 

with ‘made in _ _ _’

error error

yesterday’s nest

 yesterday’s nest

cuckoo-hawks we called them in our running

as we left our eggs out in the fields of childhood

hatching plans so naughty that we disowned them

they grew awesome in grasses of the sun’s burning

our flames consumed all the regenerations of time

as it spun around us as we spun our chrysalises

hatching the temporality of a kid’s amusement

the dust of these times in the eyelashes of a fluttering age

what armchair could hold an old man when that flickering

flies in the face of the iron compartmentalism of his futures

oh my sun let’s run  and run   and        fly

a good reed

 a good reed

there are lines that one can get lost in

slow to find your slow way back

relief at returning tempered by shock

for everything has changed 

everything says there is no way back so

the search begins for other lines of thought

for who would have thought that

that thought could get lost again

again is such a lonely word 

as much as forlorn is

as much as foghorn is

calling from rocks calling

deep deepening a breath of fog

thrown me line life

the under dressed

the under dressed

the shop windows

reflect the rushers by

onto the faces of the stripped mannequins

instant cross-dressing 

looking over the shoulders

of the reflective moods

stand still long enough

and the under-dressed

will up and polish the glass

quick a glance at your phone

urgency has arrived

the glance is dropped

half a smile and half a smile more

barking mad

barking mad 

the

house 

of the midnight 

   dog 

of the midnight 

   man 

barking 

   mad

approaching storm

 approaching storm 

edging closer 

dripping in

upon the garden chair 

a breath of wind presages

the fast decompressing air

gathered lightning knives 

spark the sharpening stone

stillness comes in pressing 

upon crescendo’s throne

tap tap tap

      cue the rain 

orchestrating in its thundering

the storm’s final fanfare