Beyond My Nest Of Bees

beyond my nest of bees

the purple swells to coat my farmers arms.

no sword of lines will fish again

for a hag of fins below a narrow boat

where the dolphins spread their wings

deep beyond the backstreets of the cobbled bones of stout.

a darker mild from an in-to-out 

fishing for flies with the honey of grout and cheese.

but I have lost my knees

and I cannot dance in my dungarees 

of silicon chips where bygone days

wears a wristwatch for the comming of 

the queen of dentures talking on my grave.

to the hills where the lonely daffodils recite

with no shape of circles paralleled 

with the croak of a summers frog of Plath's delight;

is this the autumn of the frog?

no cog and wheel will steer me otherwise.

I have no spine

with one half of a heart the size

of a stuffed old billy whit

more hungry than the sun of spring and sleep.

still I cannot sleep

while the Sunday sheep

shave their legs with a frost I cannot see.

I am the red fruit of your syllables

a word or two

inside the vase of a words coherent spoon

your moon is both

both beautiful and as ugly as a snake.

your spotted trains that whistle 

baking cakes of vanity and fair.

spare me a single penny

and I with all of paramount unease

will walk with my orange glockenspiel

the forty-nine steps of apple-peel 

where the bells of ben

ring my many beads of porcupine.

if only they were mine

beyond my nest of bees

a ghost of summer's past

how sublime;