leaves for souvenirs
these leaves
were the leaves
that left the trees
that at one time
carried all the leaves
that left the trees
and what was left
but a tree blowing
above its leaves
let’s leave it there
for it to must
as must it must
the red wine of autumn
soon
the white wine of spring
we fall bemused
by the sun’s short days
the moon’s blue tears
bequeathed to us
down all the years
all of these leaves
these trees souvenirs
the hunt is on ~ for a cure
the retired fireman
at the beach
flopped a bit
but that was him
slurred a bit
but that was him
huntington’s he said
… chorea i said
yes yes he said
now he’s dead
too late
suddenly
a dead blackbird
her feet up and rain soaked
on the garden table next to the lobelia
which is also soaked
autumn leaves continue to fall
neither will see christmas
suddenly this ray of sunshine
seems incongruous
so late in the day
check this out ~ a fundraising effort for the production of a film about love and loss
the indoctrination of a nation
the duchess of montrose
so was named the engine
of a secondhand train set
for a poor child’s christmas
they're changing guard at buckingham palace
christopher robin went down with alice
that’s when the indoctrination started
in the nursery
the king was in his counting house
there is a king
get it get it
recite it after me
pauper
the autumn of our expectation
suddenly
falling
the rain
the leaves
our expectation
until we fall
in love with it all
the colours
and the expectation
that spring
do you remember it
again and soon
the budding
of our expectation
pray two
the king and the pope
there really is no hope
surely they know
and if they know
can they not do
anything
we’ll soon see if prayer
at the highest level
really does work
and if they fail
can i be pope
or maybe king
i promise
to swear allegiance
to my self
as pope
or some such ***king dope
the disgust
that they discus the details
for the exchange of bodies
the remains of what remains
of a done deal undoing
disgusting
slag
write me a poem
from a slag pile tip
with high stones and keystones
that could let it all rip
for they weighed them in batches
as they dug out the tips
lorry-fulls and word-fulls
like clinker cankered and sulphurous lips
not from the treasure
that flowed under the slags
but the spat out blackness
like hot treacle drags
that tiered the words
by size in their seams
by blackness by shine
by clinks and by screams
as they sundered the grime
they give remembrance of us
as we were then at that time
long ago indeed that was us
running an afternoon’s sunning
slow turning weariness
down roads way back home
achievements mountainous
clatter them to the top of the moon
or to the bottom of canyons
dug by the cranes and the lorries
those foundlings anew
it’s all gone now of course of course
it’s all in the underworld
of post-moderns anew
that are built on the slag
of times that we knew
just that one tear it took
me back to the sun
running the gauntlet of us
one more time come on mun
or be gone
go home
come back
or be gone
for the keystone is dislodged
the slag’s black blood is a flow
that forever has congealed
in a memory of lads that we know
were themselves the keystones of self
although they themselves never knew
