how slow these cradles rock
with their honycomb mouths of a desert sand
from a distant land of now forgotten ways.
these days now drag as heavy as a horse
as the frozen steel of nettles trace my skin.
there is a May Queen in my summer house
more perfect than the lines that haunt my face.
neither time nor space
nor to chance one arm
to dare the scarecrow
pierce my eyes for a better view than his.
my hunger grows as panic through my veins
too many miles away
from the flaunting wrists that once were mine alone.
one too many stepping stones
dismembered with the summer leaves
in a basket full of toadstools and imaginary friends.
where now am I
in these Danse Macabre days?
all walks of life now statues of an ordinary kind
as blunt and blind as the pickled bowels
swimming with a goldfish upside down.
there is nothing here but tin
though for thirteen days it shined it\'s shoes
and walked to the fairground stalls in bright attire.
it is a long walk home from the straight mouths of despair.
I will meet you there
on the sunny-side of an egg white
dancing with the red ants
on a single strand of hair;