Tuesday, 5 November 2019

crafting nothing out of thin air

recycled

endlessly

Swimming                  
        
through the seasons
a cantankerous old fellow just floats 

on his back 
occasional languid 
slow back stroke 
barely there 
                                                                                    floating on the breeze
Straying across lanes buffeting the divider
Looking up from underneath the baggy beach shorts liquid billow
A hand dangles under the water a watch old and tarnished by the sun
Consulting notes once more the poet speaks of
Artfully arranged trash piles in the underpass next to the canal
Stylised rubbish has a ‘vitality’ of its own, soon it will require an agent
Social gatherings liquify in the rain
A desperate looking face covering the side of a house
At the crossroads of ‘just getting on with it’, I give my best curl up and die face
Rain in hell stuffed cattle we are trundle this way
Now that for ritual imaginings sparks to light up the winter gloom
‘it’s because your worth it’ the advertising screams lifting a child
Aloft the rapids towards the precipice
Crunch, lurching forwards a seminar in progress by feminist theorist
Gabrielle Shattuck on the legal rights of compost
Rinsing plain language through a sieve
“did she kill herself?” (1) we ask, the few traceable pamphlets would suggest so
And hells breath it’s time to be moving repulsed and appalled mesmerised by it all
Like metals mutable melting malleable macabre

(1) Reference to the tragic early death of poet Veronica Forrest-Thomson aged 28 in 1975 when I was 2 and Marc Bolan was the king of glam rock.

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