fourteen sticks of celery
twenty years reflected on a pond
no point-to-point
the sea-horse picking vultures
from the velvet of my eyes.
the purple eggs of aniseed
be they gravel or the sunlight of a chin
that listen in
the stubble of a black sea\'s argument.
grandfather\'s clock is well and kicking in
as dry as bones flicking through
the pages of repair.
two degrees of solitary burns
the blush that thrives on thieves
boxed in cardboard
pissing like a newt;
now mute the chair of methadone
dancing with the tables of a less apparent view.
is there any point I think of you at all?
you people with your pastries
making haste my darlings in a bush-fire clotting cream
where no cloud is, no god will chisel grease
or paint my face the odours of your sperm.
hermaphrodite are we in the belly of the pork
that squawks and squeals the sunday morning skies
where cold mouths cry
and pluck my fathers feathers from a corner of my eye,
there is never time enough to dine with friends
make amends
shake hands and shake my throat
wave goodbye.
I have fourteen sticks of celery to peel;