one trip to moon and back.
how different now this earth of frozen pollen.
hungry bees
once happy as a portrait on a breast,
now flies asleep as stitches
somewhere about a corner of a face;
a face beyond the comet of immune.
bad stars now sprung from cages
each heavy as a snow-plough,
crossed with Salem\'s knot
in boxes safer than a womb.
how soon before our fate and marble meet?
now drunk are we as skittles
in a spiders queue all merry as a lamb.
Sunday baits our taste-buds
and a hundred gods of no good use
belching hymns of solitaire and ham,
to cross our palms with sentiment and spit;
no more unique.
one as much as otherwise another.
one tree felled
another mouthpiece shouts un-recognised;
to moon and back.
from mannequin to custard;