The Importance of The Working Week

I have been dying to tell of a

Fossilised brain enclosed in a famed wit lives near there.

Thermals are unique and float easily like a lazy river bend.

You are not what we think I am. It is extra-ordinary how this domestic life shines.

Hold it up to light it clamours for approval. 

Get your dog under control I yell. “Easy” is the response.

We are at a standstill terrified in this life while a yapping dog threatens to bite.

Frozen to the spot it is your fear your fault.

Whispers incarnate petrify over frozen ground and dogs are hauled this way and that weary speculators of forthcoming injustice.

In the funnel of being fed alive snatches of conversation like, “for the people” proliferate

in many plastic bags hanging from the trees 

Deck the halls like so much bells and holly threatening to collapse it all

Under its gargantuan weight

For the final head to head.

Like my malevolent concoction of macerated leaves 

Belching up bubbles of green foam silently on the side then maybe

Curl up in a New Age carapace and sit suspended from it, rock bound miles up

Looking through it over and above

This is not real I don’t believe in any of it today.

In its jaws a rough feathery mess of substance, tracery of the body hauled

Dead or dying bleeding still over the village green to be dumped like Punch on the spike of the pub.

You don’t live in this room

                             These walls are invisible

                                                                See through them

                          It's the world
                                                 where we live

The street is your home

                                    Now go outside


and lie down on your grassy bed.

THE MUSEUM OF CHILDHOOD

To dream the impossible / think the unthinkable thing

Know the unknowable 

in a past less real

Than the flickering light 

Of skulls crushed under Imploding gravity

Severe old light gashes out of mouths 

Sparking bodies hurled 

Into the

sky whispers of a sonic boom shudder

as a small child falling out of bed 

suspended mid-air then suddenly

it doesn’t cry out.

Often now crouching low you can sense a presence

In the bushes just peeking

To catch a glimpse of the real

Crawling on its belly through 

twisted limbs & sharp crystalline fossils

impossible beings

encased in leaf rot 

compacted three hundred million years ago

Eyes from under the glacier

tiny honed

Objects.