Raven in the Fairground Sky
The clouds, like rare plums, raven in the fairground sky, the ravenous rain on Marmalade tops, the dayglow cereal of everyday life, a cut up mural of Marx and San Miguel, pen pals in the lost mountains of a paperless office. I walk side-step through the Crown-office of a conspiracy icecap crazy for syllables playing wide-angled hop-scotch. I hunt with violins, my bow at the ready, all the birds are musical notes. This, that and the other compliant with the philosophy of Chess. I read the world on wrappers, the chewing gum status of social media, all this, you know is true for the clouds are books of rain and the Sun is a lonely librarian. “Quiet please” This is the reading room of the gods, their fingerprints are on the liquorice text, messy with folded corners, underlined and annotated. The universe is a critic’s dissertation, a bibliography of supernovas and black holes, in dispute and sent for arbitration. The world is a government of soft-soap and distraction, messy with paint pots of noodles and crossbows of corruption. I wear Wellingtons in protest and eat at the table of the poor.
