The eels of language
are slithering at the door
That was satisfying:
the early morning cleansing ritual
inside and outside
thoughts and dreams, skin conditions and muscle pains
(What did we eat?)
and the day is come, with its bus passes and coughs
Optical illusions are tricky to explain, I think I am going to be blind
We cavort on the carpet or the rug, I think we are already more or less blind
Allotment Poem #9
There was rhubarb in the corner of
Our patch it was there when we arrived
& it will be there when the world ends
You can’t get rid of rhubarb but then
You wouldn’t want to
Rhubarb crumble being the modern equivalent of Ambrosia
We hang things on walls, all our dead pets & past loves, decorate the nest with fluff from our bellies, we are so disgusting.
My emotions are written down, & there is a formula
Yours are held up to the light, & there is a lot I don’t understand
“Carnation” does not remind us when we read it in the poem
of the body & of flesh although it may be from the Latin
& it might be called so for its pinkness & derive from the Middle French carnation —
“person’s color or complexion”
It reminds us of a carnation. A flower. An object. A thing. An idea.
Allotment Poem #8 (Kale)
A lot of people disrespect Kale. You know
One day Kale was out shopping and Spinach just
Cut her. Cut her cold. What the hell?
Kale is tasty as Spinach! I’ve had her. I love her.
All of us in Kale City love her tasty curliness.