i’ve stepped in the sound again
oh
the
giant barking dog turd barks again
the giant barking dog turd barks again
the giant barking dog turd
the giant barking dog turd
the giant barking dog turd barks again
come on ~ all together now
oh
the
giant barking dog turd barks again
the giant barking dog turd barks again
the giant barking dog turd
the giant barking dog turd
the giant
barking
dog turd
BARKS …
… AGAIN
indeed it is
there is a grime that is so pernicious that it enfolds the growing child
until that child fades in a bowed man’s empty eyes and
the child is lost to a greyness that is so enveloping that
life itself takes upon it an inevitability that
nothing will ever change again in the labyrinthine whittle
of an industrial scaled demise where time’s life is hewn in grit
stoicism stands forlorn upon the riveted carapace of a
scream that reaches to the end of the universe
for the realisation is that death’s time has come to stay
and what else is there to say is all one can say to a death mask’s hollow eyes
sprung
and
i thought blue butterflies
above the tall grass
a hare with one ear down
a dusting of gnats dancing
on the strung sunbeams
the decision of pollen to fly
the nest of promises sitting
hidden in expectation
in the sway of a breeze
thoughts are not preordained
although deep seated
the past a mother’s memory
the child a dream
to run the scream of a laugh
so long that is startles the hare
explodes the butterflies
and the blue is simply
the deepest
the thin morning air
there is nothing as thin
as the thin morning air
breathing slowly over
the sea over there as
little as a ripple as is
as calm as a mind
in our lowly abode
on the rocks ‘neath the sky
so never ask why
for its just over there
the next breath
the next breath
in the thin morning air
the age old story
how the gnarled endure
when the dust from the drought
of human love burns for
no mountainside is too high
or cold valley too dark
to bear the fruit of time
when time itself is the wire
that supports the vine
the love of humankind
producing a vintage
for tomorrow’s child
coming down
mountains unfold into heather
in a laying of sunshine
sheep follow a few trees
bunched both in the morning air
grey stoned fists soften
bracken crackles
grass greening in the
gleam of a slow decent
the morning in rapture sighs
what a sight for sore eyes
it is
sunderland
sets the sun upon a rockpool’s gold
of a winter in longing for summer fools with
buckets and spades and castles with moats
high tide flowing over sand dug boats
full of shrieks and shouts and bailing outs
by kiddies immersed in jolly roger creeks
and feathers atop of the castle’s keep
with seaweed around all slimy and deep
oh come on my summer friends and friends
run and run into the rising sun and
of this and more we’ll speak and speak
when in old age our knees start to creak
and a smile is the worth of that rising sun
and a cheery tear life’s slow setting sun
