What a mess!

local press crowded in on their own flesh

outraged passersby tossed bile onto the arriving detectives

call this an investigation?

campaigning in more sunny climes, he stopped for lunch. only now he realised lunch was latex hardware store with plastic badges announcing sales on bovine brassieres and frontyard statuary

in their cotton slippers by clocks turned upside down in the horse-light stands a weasel who is falling down a rabbit-shaft

on a wednesday kickback, or jerusalem as a fountain, raining blood because the milk has been drawn back to the breast

by a steel warrior with a hyacinth for a head

but the darling bathrobe of suicide is warming a little, a little lily called fred who is one inch
away from a horses' hoof. now no inches away.

the winter yesmen eat candyfloss behind the bus-station which has flown away, and their shivers are like stockings on a child. one is tapping on a xylophone with his right ear whilst a flock of pink birds solemnly leave his right ear in single file, so they can get through the bars to widower elvis, half-horse, half-blacksmith

"the wheels of gratitude grind slowly." It was a strange voice. I say strange because it was pear-shaped. Playing underfoot were garden juke-boxes spilling out jazz standards like a slow pornographic tongue.

In under five minutes you could be chatting to other singles. Why wait?

girl w pink spots, rooster and devil


Anna Montana said...

Is this the one you wrote on my balcony? Waiting...

martin marriott said...

the balcony poem still sits like lincoln on the train, adjusting its bow-tie and spitting on its shoes.

Anna Montana said...

Hope the train leaves the station soon, with coattails flapping in the breeze.

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