Boom. Boom. Boom.

boom. boom. boom.

a handfull of scales in my quatermas room.

this summer-house with it's 4 o'clock broom.

it is time to sweep the cobwebs 

from the weather man's balloon.

the rise and fall of chicory and heat

now rises with congealed uncertainty

from mouth to foot

to the temper of a spoon

high-noon has found me squatting with the flies

drinking tea from the flame of genesis.

all clock's have ticked my fear of tinkerbell.

am humble in her presence

still I stand knee-deep in her blood-red sea.

she came possessed

through lunacy on a lucky-charm of stone.

she was older than a laugh.

as old as my anxiety.

stay true she said

stay now and prop my pillow.

it is only you who follows

who envies all concieved 

from poet laureate to the sucking egg.

it is midnight in our mid-atlantic scene.

our cast of players gather for the feast.

it is easter now.

let the play begin;