Getting Closer

My Street:
They’re relining the sewers in the next street.  Slight foul constipatory smells mixed with the chemical confectionary of polyurethane resin glue.  Ambivalent.
My House:
On the white stairs a small ladybird with wings prepared to fly, sculpted by death, made me think of Asterix the Gaul’s helmet.
My Garden:
Snapping through the might of ivy.  Melted, assimilated, melded; and green hairy vice to my wooden slatted garden fence.  It spreads across the top, basking in the sunset, like me stretching my arms out across the back of the sofa, watching TV.

My Head:
Dressed my best for the revolution – my Rad Glads.  Abracadabra.  The mirror winks at me, cockily.  Haughtily, I’m filling myself up with bluster, mustering my miracles and wonders into a cluster.  I strike a yoga pose, hold it.  Tell me I’m not an utter nutter.

Sonnet no#1
My eyebrows pucker in a self-amused frown
At this preposterous, prosaic and pedantic caper.
I can’t quite believe I’m writing this down!
Longhand! Italics, real ink on real paper.
Like a spider dragging a bloody leg
Over a vellum shroud stretched o’er this desk;
Words, signs, symbols spat out of my head
In long parallel lines that stretch
To infinity: To remind me.  The hard copy.
Coerced, proof.  Extort truth; 
Squeeze my heart for evidence of an apology.
Shouldn’t be grovelling at the feet of apothecaries
When they want the death of me.
CrookedMan CrookedMan
Apr 2, 2012