Fodders And Suns
Someone begot someone….
Pick a pack of peppered Pound; let St. Joyce a lullaby sing.
The one a long time loony been; the other in the night write cackled.
Whatever you can’t hear is music. Between notes find Mozart and Coltrane.
Words like the locust-shells, moved by no inner being. Old men and camels.
Would you call yourself pronoun or proverb? A congress of dead nerves.
In America, the monied waiting to pounce: pedophiles circling schoolyard.
Perhaps life is terrible when you are truly stupid.
Set self to write A Compleat History of Water. Just testing.
Neither is your nose bent nor do vicious waves flog beaches.
Walk upon your tippi toes — order can become a chronic, wasting illness.
Poems are not a life, even when blissed. Only a prosody of tennis.
Avoid sad death marches of warbler watching. Learn to love kale.
Take up theoretical spelunking or practice extreme atrophy.
Long stretches of boredom and dread forge solidarity with despair.
Invent a formal vocabulary of incoherence; earn time off for time served.
Tread with caution; each word a potentially lethal land mine.
In the night at the fading of the stars, Mr Finn will be found again.
You have now entered a poetry made of buttons. Push with care…
