Not Particularly.

The dust always settles,
as they say,
upon the floor.

when it does,
an underpowered speaker
plays Syd Barrett.

Cricket noises and chirps
cause the room to vibrate under us,

and as softly as we talk,
my ears grind to a shell.

My favourite song has ruined them –
I finish off the crumbs
of a necessary pie,
because there is less time for madness.

We play with titles;
you call me “Monsignor”.

We throw our cards about,
like the others.

My Queen reads Edward Lear’s limericks aloud.
“To laugh or to cry?”
is a question,
when she asks it.

I remember the blue light
before my bad dreams
as a child.

I could play another with ease,
but today I pull no tricks.

Suppose that cricket underneath us
turns a wheel?

While painters of a certain school
pack up their things
in satisfaction –

the half-stolen silverware
from each other’s apartments
is silver-tongued;
and it discusses

the tree branch outside.
A lizard greets the ground.

The lizard forgets
the branch that…

it slipped again,
and slipped once more.

In the afterlife,
there’s plenty of china.

A cat meets him at the station,
with a parasol.

It must have been a rainy night
in the garden.

The glow of home,
its invisible friends
call the creature.

The chameleon
makes like a new barometer
for the snowflakes and swirls
that distract it from
the telephone.

Showers. Good. –
The shipping broadcast
gets it right every time
because there is no wind
in space.


2 thoughts on “Not Particularly.

  1. An eternal poem, infinitely rereadable, the tone, kind of soft melancholy (perhaps) sneaks in gradually through the layered images, i will return to this,

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