not 7teen of them
seventeen of them.
Part pink and gold, yes
but seventeen of them.
More than a blip.
A mountain in landscape,
Falling deep into the caverns.
I cant help myself,
But i should.
Unless this is dead.
And all becomes extinct.
I awoke to a black sky,
But the droplets of rain were pink, purple and pale blue;
Shimmering on pane.
A pounding base raising from the floor below,
Fucking throbbing; Pinky Fararge!
As i knit,
To the slow pace of growing teeth.
Drifting on while they play video games.
Looking for meaning or regret. A time filler. Something, anything.
Waiting to die, or balloon. Or both.
Are they waiting also. Maybe we should talk about it.
My life is for you now, as i can’t be bothered any more.
Soon it will be for her also.
This life of distraction. Of searching and failure.
But of joy.
Dark and exquisite,
As tight as her,
Glistening in half my age.
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.
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.
Laying on twigs,
Invading tiny nests,
The birds need vests,
When feathers fail.