when you do what you do
inside you it’s a who
reaching out black tree branches
thru your lungs and your eyes
in a white sterling darkness
neither dead nor alive
twisting morrow and bone
like a screw
when you do what you do
on her back spreading legs
raping death stilling breath
you become almost true
to the old silent ghost
open wings without feathers
nightingale in a worm
form is a danger
a danger even dogs of my reason are afraid of
pain flows time flows you flow
thru me
but not the form
it sits there
numb and vile
like the concrete electrical pole
doomed in the old orchard
of my grandma
death
is so yellow
and no black
[inspired by Wendy Cope’s anthology ‘The Funny Side’ - published by faber and faber]
The sun is nowhere
This summer’s delayed
My throat is like sandpaper
Earth is my head
I read Wendy Cope’s masterpiece and I blabber:
“Will I ever be published by faber and faber?”
The news just announced
Now, at BBC
That people live longer surrounded by sea
“Rubbish” I say and switch of the TV
“I’d live longer only if ff published me.”
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