The Songbird
First I thought he was a painter, black beret nonchalant worn, a black suit not pressed and shiny with age white shirt frayed a the collar and a dramatic yellow cravat, but his hands too clean and he didn’t have an air of turpentine.
No, a poet walking along as seeing and being somewhere else a place only he knew about. A smile, a joke yet untold graced his face. Asked about him at the corner shop. “ Him, the shopkeeper laughed, is the village’s fool”
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The Hunted
Tiny rabbit blue hunted by man’s best friend and shot at by weekend soldiers dressed in olive green… came to an open road, alas this Sunday heavy traffic families enjoying sunny countryside…little rabbit blue in your entrails I read mans future, so much blood running on asphalted road it can’t all be yours, it’s a river at least ten million dead a number that makes death an abstraction, but I remember one who fell off a tall tower holding on to his umbrella in his face our history was ghoulishly written. Humanity, so much hate so little love, yet all we can do is to sit by the roadside waiting.
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Recurring Dream
It was an old dream I remembered this Sunday afternoon of fine drizzle, sleepy small town boredom and pretty curtains. The sea between icebergs was deep green as I swam between them towards shore a treeless island rolling landscape and yellow grass. I was wearing a nice suit blue suit and bought a vanilla ice cream of a man dressed in a monk’s habit he also sold lollipops made of chicken blood but that was for the nocturnal who roamed this island. Statues of beautiful horses made of onyx flanked the hills they came alive at night when starlight released their shadows that galloped across grassland giving grace and forgiveness to the nocturnal who had to sink down into the silt in the lake of amnesia before dawn. The dream tries to tell me something perhaps I will know what it is before it is too late and I’m a dream a sorrowful soul that flies slowly over an ocean of uncaring calmness.
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