by on May 4, 2024 :: 0 comments

Winter is cold. The sky is blue. The year ends.
Certain as short square fingers stuffing pipes
the self-assurance to be ripped apart
like linoleum covers of bus seats
with cushions pneumatic with nylon sponge.
The smoky soul chooses a double decker
coconut shies memories of Coney Island
and verdigris upon a copper torch
that tests the colour of each human skin
for ermines after all are merely stoats
or weasels held in contempt for low cunning
like fellas in prunella à la Pope.

Suggestions mild with nuance made in whispers
falling feathers of snow on tenement walls
a lingering leaf upon an ivy vine
a woman sipping soup next to her sketchbook
another typing dandelions in spring
a man gaslighting his own wedded wife
a sheriff shooting gangsters in the west
kids snorkeling mid coral reefs down under
or slaves bloodying their chains in evil ports
and genocides within the heart of darkness
and conspiracy theories doing rounds
with wounded knees and blankets of small pox
efforts to shine a torch quickly deflected
for centuries to come so some can reign.

Leaves swirl in eddies deep within the glen
their colours myriad as the stars in heaven
and fish swim among roots of redwood trees
where snowy mountains rise up from the sea.
Minds look for peace and hearts hanker for comfort.
Killers are everywhere. What flowers? What moon?
Trouble. Sparks fly. Upwards.
Innately flawed. This piece of work.
Not mine. His. What destiny!

editors note:

What, indeed? We demand to speak to a manager! – mh clay

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