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.