dementia ?
ultimately all there is
are the thoughts running under the earth
the calcite words formed from the oozing of life
the lanterns flickering where no light is
suddenly flare in the draught from a door
opened and slammed
shut
momentarily a moment
is gone
the solitary sanitary man
there’s a man
with a van
who has a shoulder bag
sort of sealed it is and dual-coloured
well this man goes around
in his van
to all the places that are frequented by a woman
and he goes to receptacle and removes a sealed unit
and he replaces it with a sealed unit
or so i have been told
although he goes around each week
the contents are shed every month
at the end of the endometrium
obviously his weekly synchronicity is due to their asynchronicity
with the moon cramped on the waters that are blood red
at the sunset of his reason is his need for a salary
to support his partner’s lunar synchronicity
funny job his mates say
collecting jam rags (school bags ~ ha ha)
but someone has to do it
and the pheromones are hermetically sealed
or so he believes
flushed of face as he rushes around his round
and around he goes as life goes round
endometrium is a funny name for a race horse
but this van jockey wears the livery of commerce
green chosen for its insouciance but
someone has to pay for the dam on the lake of blood moon
he doesn’t say much the solitary sanitary man
plod plod plod around he goes pad pad pad
well someone has to do it when they do it
don’t they
strange how many rivers run beneath our feet
must be hidden from view
someone decided
the clod
a child turns a clod
beside the warm wall
out spill the sun beetles
the eggs of pallor
sometimes a devil’s coach horse
sometime a stag beetle jumps
the child backwards
until another clod spills
but not yet the urge to capture
to jam jar the prizes
for now the child’s eyes are as free
as the the four corners of escape
centipede millipede
the words writhe
crumble like the soil
from the tussled clod
the child has enough soil
to fingernail home
to smudge in the day’s book
the colour of an explosion
dearth
death is born with us
it is of us
it belongs to us
and it dies when we do
death is the
non-existent bookends
that spill the butterflies days
it is the shell of the pupa
the dust on a broken wing
when the luminescence dries
it is the closing of the sunset’s eye
september
and
september
and
the scrumping is easy
the crows in the apple tree
bouncing at their breakfast
in the ever-open greenhouse
a few late trusses return a slow smile
the weather lady permits that smile
for have you seen the forecast
the doctor says my sore throat
will shorten with these days
i too permit myself a quick smile
porthcawl
ahh porthcawl
undecided whether it is estuary or sea
grandly grandiloquent or discontent
showy or fairground
ornate dragon-armed seats or candyfloss
figure eight or figurine
an esplanade of gentle folk
or the cannonade of kiss me quick lads
both of course
spin around and sea
rest bay and coney island
both
under a rain squall
once upon a time in a photographer’s eye
there are these items that might
if the light is just just right
live once more their dream
to be held in a sunbeam
so they wait and rust and must
and trust the wait must must
so they stay innocuous
walked past each day by us
but then one day in a million
they become one in a million
and there they are
framed on the gallery wall
held in a spotlight
