there is no place to return to
no communal hall for the faith or something else.
little gods in shirt-sleeves
above the crows where flies bright cadaver
coloured green in an ink-well
seeking sanctuary with the bluebells
corn-fed and yellow
with jaundice eyes
from times long past, as loud as all but dumb;
a pheasant with no heart.
no harmony. no trench coat. no fur ball
for the ghost of christmas past.
name me seven Monday\'s from the day that burns the soul.
white china flown with lullabies
a song or two among the orange pith
carved and crossed as lovers
seeking sanctuary with unorthadox
with buttered limbs and a pinch of cyanide!
primate or prehistoric
too many scrawls and scribbles on a stone.
we are all but skin and bone
beautiful and bountiful
singing love songs through the crankshaft
with our engine oil and a black rose spitting blood;
come the flood
come\'s god adorned in his pin-striped suit and tie.
the Sunday lamb drowns in it\'s own fat.
how far we now
we primates with our eye-balls closed
with our armpits rich in aniseed
rich in prayer
stitching thread to heaven
with our corckscrew eyes.
we imagine there\'s no heaven.
it isn\'t hard to do;