(2016) Arc de Triomphe
Lobsters are cold crustaceans,
shield, flesh, and snapping claws.
Or Dreamers? Or is that clutching
at straws? Monads without feeling?
Lobsters are cold crustaceans,
shield, flesh, and snapping claws.
Or Dreamers? Or is that clutching
at straws? Monads without feeling?
Outside the plane window
are cotton puff clouds
encircled by ruby orange light.
Bursting with energy
like Des Renford’s swimming,
loggerhead and green turtles plunge
plump shells into water,
surfacing for breath, rhythmically
sweeping thick oars through the ocean,
frothing the surface.
Sea winds cruise overhead,
Cerulean skies, kicked red by
The bloody sun, recede.
From Cheyne Row’s Roman Church,
Parishioners warm to their annual
Procession, every July 7
Drawn irresistibly to the Tower.
Tree hide-outs,
swings, roundabouts
footie dream weaves
caterpillars in silk cocoons
adhere to sticks, festooned
on glue stuck gum-leaves.
Foul, pock-faced cane toad,
ddddddd-ing diesel-motor monotony,
point blunted, brutal snout –
bone-ridge standing out.
I disagree that dawn
And dusk are the
Supreme parts of day.
The queue before the Mass dwindles,
the Dark Box opens empty.
Ready am I, a-confession-to-make
Fumbling the “Bless me Father I have sinned” bit,
envying the confidence of penitents quick
to the point, rolling off instances of pride, gluttony,
betrayal, illicit sex.
Whimsy, an art he lived by.
From Chesterton’s lamp-post
He saw an asylum of Napoleons,
In Don Quixote the noblest hero,
Truth battled in dialogue with imbeciles.