At The End Of The Garden

To start with breakfast
and the waking birds
that listen to muttered,
inane, and fading

Let the dew know
its purpose and greet
stranded green
again and again

A hoarse cry across
the way gives hanging
blossom an urge to fall
but it merely rolls eyes

Hidden to a gaping door
and bulging with weeds
the light makes a play;
a firing pistol to recede

Fenced away, these baubles
babble and clang.
I dine to new days
at the end of this garden.


Plastic squeezed
and emptied into these aching limbs.
Metal blood runs
to the hills where it explodes through
uprooted fingers
squeezing the white blanket,
euphoric and uncontrolled.
Black nails curl
up to the black sky;
magnetic and horny.

Swirling down a plug hole
the mirror aches and repeats;
mercury is in my teeth
Venus is in my mind.

Wake and hate; the vulgar,
the weight. The state of
facing bags and dark, wet mounds
pulsing on a sighted limit.

This polluted being aches.


The fountain of youth is of no use to the blind
and we’ll find hindsight is a bitch. She’ll snarl
and she’ll nip and she’ll catch the thundering
whip and she’ll tear down the walls with an
unmanicured hand. Blow out your chest but
make way while it’s best as she’s coming and
the Earth is her conquest. The shoe is on a
foot; a lioness paw, with it swinging in might
to the sound of a roar, that will move such
weight you’ll be nostalgic.