not 7teen of them
seventeen of them.
Part pink and gold, yes
but seventeen of them.
Timid in the real world,
Weak as a lamb,
Until he’s milking turkeys,
Like the turkey milker can.
Lost in a force of fear,
But when he’s milking turkeys
He’s the turkey milking man.
Squeeze it tight,
Do it right,
Last week i came across a blog of photographic collages that really impressed me. Not only is the work beautiful, some of it is political, funny and full of contrasts. It is visually spectacular. Follow the link here http://bpstainton.wordpress.com/ Aesthetic heaven. Stylish and magic.
I wondered about the possibility of a collaboration, and sent a message to the father of the images, Ben. I asked if he would be willing to produce an image to accompany a selection of my words, anything that inspired him. He graciously said yes. The below image, entitled #illuminated Natasha is Ben’s response to two lines from a poem i wrote last winter, called, ” Haunted all the way, by you “.
One hundred million degrees below freezing,
And Natasha buttoning up her eyes,
Bubbling oil heats the cell of cosy,
As the pull of the future helps cavernous walnuts snap into another rise;
As routine marsupials splash with vigor,
Running like cats away from litter.
Winter pallet shifts a tone lighter and lighter and lighter and เบา
Ascending with a drum roll.
A gift of it to that,
Haunted all the way,
La Luna higher than my spirit, evidencing there is a universe beyond earth, beyond here, beyond this.
Twenty Four hours after hearing organs rattling inside this hollow cavity, kidneys pushing out ” The Shit “.
Lost for a moment then lost for four days, silly me.
Black Monday came so fast. So far from last October. Another exile from reality. Another blip.
The Stallion chooses fruit over beer,
I choose beer over fruit.
Nutrients to feed his hard strong body,
Liquid shit to feed the hanging flesh on bones.
Lying in sand,
Wet from the sea,
As I sit and write,
Like a bitch that’s just been milked.
Below my skeleton is beautiful,
It’s just the surrounding mush that spoils it.
Coaxing it out,
Down the juicy wet snout.
On Guardian articles,
Ac-hew, nasal spew!
Hot and fast,
I sneezed at last!
Hey little fella,
I’ll buy a pest repeller,
Hide under an umbrella,
And fly with a propeller,
Break both of my patella,
Bend spoons with Uri Geller,
Go see a fortune teller,
Drink fifty cans of Stella,
Eat balls of Mozzarella,
Suck toes of David Mellor,
Be ill with salmonella,
Turn orange Donatella,
We sing in acapella,
The things we do for love.
A poet. Yes with a King Charles spaniel and up-lighters.
Market stalls and wondering dick heads at chav night.
Sun a March born miracle.
Now gone split glimmer of bright light. Motorway,
Anticipation and cherish like yesterday pluss.
I see them again. Tiny sheep, furry birdies,
As one would expect as we approach crucifixion o’clock.
Barr Barr white sheep, have you any thoughts,
Or is it just my vegan ego thinking for you.
Fur on green a pleasure to see,
A feeling of cute,
As long as i forget their purpose,
The meaning of sheep.
Future dots of death in nature,
Bloody fruits, unfortunately.
Grizzly terrier face,
On a pharmaceutical high,
Walking with macaroons,
Heading to a room like dead,
Hours on hold,
To find a solution from this.
Laying on twigs,
Invading tiny nests,
The birds need vests,
When feathers fail.