Electric baby syrupA Poem by TerpsichoreHere they come again through the strobe shadow rain, hunched between Popeye houses, the Russian closet poets wearing thin disguises, playing with verbal vegetables, the worst tillers of the voiced soil since the days of Cain. And the oilskinned ants arrived today and it's rained all blasted week and the lotus seeds are ruined again and the vision master is acting crazy. He wants to make another baby, but everything has gone three legged race hazy, and the owl and pussycat don't waste a second look, just sail away to the crackle of burning books. Raindrops run on telephone wires, little silvered messengers of other peoples verbalisations, the endless variety of never again to be heard conversation in this twisted land; where concerned citizens simply remain concerned. And I hear the far distant screaming, the barks and coughs, they nearly blew me holy hat right off, made me jump right out of me clogs, leaving exclamation marks arranged in circles round me ever twinkling feet, whilst scarecrows danced the tarantelle and the crows closed in for a treat. Strange things are occurring, the cows eat pollution and me old man's snoring while his pacemaker goes on whirring and then he ups and dies, just like that, on the spot, with a top hat and a moustache, just like a roadkill badger. So we all left our bikes propped in silence on bible walls while the endangered honey bee... buzzed and the weeds and plants grew... tall like a fistful of violet mountains improvident as the dawn and once more and again... we fall. So one final time we hunt for shots of penicillin in the cobwebbed pharmacy, just one more little bottle of electric baby syrup, old copybooks of accounts. Einstein was right, there are no decimal points here, just staggered columns of handwritten figures and several acres of old disused tin mines, millions of toxic blooded heroes and the meek whisper of time. Now we are twined up in wraiths of sea fog, standing and staring pointlessly as if resigned to fate, like lonely dogs in a forgotten kennel; and somewhere out there is a donkey honking like a dry pump, yearning for one more far, fierce hour, when he will turn left instead of right and finally have his day in the sun, oh, how G K Chesterton was so right. And then there is just silence and it makes us jump, and we all helpless and plain foolish, here in this world of decimated opportunity. Perhaps this would be a good time to endeavour to love one another all we possibly can until the day we die; or at least, we could promise solemnly to at least try one last time.
© 2016 TerpsichoreReviews
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11 Reviews Added on February 24, 2016 Last Updated on May 15, 2016 AuthorTerpsichoreLondon, United KingdomAboutNothing much to tell really. I work in the city, boring, but lucrative enough to enable me to spend most weekends away from the place. I enjoy writing, reading equally as much. Like retro style cloth.. more..Writing
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