Tidal Crayons
Caked in thudding trumpets; beating clave like tins
Stuck in velvet tight temptation,
Shine clean and sparkle, while solemn waves ripple
Inclining paper torn into shreds of smothered and vacuous vision
And a fog lifts, with chilled to the cardigan covered extremes
Undo the buttons, wear the whistling feast, a flight of fresh fancy.
With paper towels jammed in between damaged lamp posts we scream
Strutting as we cobble our way down the street
As slow as a muscle release from a dying camel
Sing to the pie maker, grasping new gravy powder packets and thrusting them out
About the missed meeting place, covered in wicker chairs
A place for me, old men and their friends
If they have managed to keep any
As the years go by that desire to not change crushes heads
Breaks a passion for pissing blood for evidence
Treat yourself to a breast of chicken baguette at the station
Not the fast train but the busted carriage with the rattling chains
Tied to the track; ready to pull down the by stander
Who watches for girls who might be free
As sad as a burger beaten bun bouncing on the ceiling
After maggots have had their fill
Crusts of pies; chapped lips tender from dehydration
Bellowing, scalpel ready hit man makes mincemeat
Given to taking blood
Not giving it
Shoots cos he has got to have fun
Penetrate the lathe and plaster wall
And hang
July 9th 2016
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright 2016
Poet's Corner 