November 20, 2020
I am a fall-guy, spent tithes of time
Building barns and stocking farms
I built a sense of life left wanting
Set on a shelf for mending
But I can’t do it
Flattery is small beer.
What, in this latter-day, I’ve seen is
Good form nor as-per-norm forfend a sexton’s worms
Broad doors and reputations sidetrack, stretch out branch-line stations.
That the years’ occasions are right good cheer physicians
Wears fairly at the time
Heart hears the altercations running counter nonetheless
But are stopped against the skull
Where neurones hit, pick out, and pluck, say, ‘skip it’.
A confluence of victories;
To such forgets I have concurred, and many times
Since games must entertain a purpose for the present
Their object not to know the cluttered undergrowths
The nexus of our actions implicates them cover-ups.
Are sycamores our deeds, their seeds, fly wide and
To settle, to be trodden-down; left crushed, forgotten
Bags, hauls, and fancy lanyards fill us up with surplus matters
Barnacles rich attach, are sere old salted comforters
Barricades form from musings, minds at dusk are bitter
Their tales rear walls
The spot one spots such implications is a half-light place
Met in an armchair crime-cell at the crack of dawn
Bringing in acres legacy of bugbears; gripes and follies
Scourings from little battles, but the eye that’s eagle
Nor let them go, dispose these stowed, serrated, antique bothers
“As long as I keep these”, one’s wits defy, make statement
“None other’s rules; my own”
I hang, am trussed, beat-up in quarantine
Opposing - which I self-impose - at windmills hurling cushions
Bolsters whereon upholstered are my Pyrrhic spears
...here’s close to the seams, I swear, a tiny hitch...
An old-time hand-machine, its movement lightly knocking
And maybe I can, sitting here, get the thing going,
Start it, and set this business right again
Have draw thread running?
And sew, and so make close; though no-one else makes holes
On my patch.