Electric baby syrup

Here 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.

Reviews

[barleygirl]

I admire & deeply envy your ability to spiel off an endless stream of creatively-crafted outlandish images & ideas, abstract, but clearly conjuring up mind visions that lead us to some distinct conclusions about life. It's amazing to see this was posted in 2016, which makes it timeless poetry, since it relates so perfectly to today's chaotic madness. You have one of the richest imaginations & even more admirable becuz you sustain this high level of sparkling "WOW!" over such a long poem without any duds along the way (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Terry O'Leary]

Superb imagery!
Great thoughts and message!
Terry

[Fabian G. Franklin]

This was pleasantly surprising and intriguing; a wonderful distraction from the mundane. I greatly enjoyed the trip down the path seldom taken. I'm certainly all in favor of love. Blessings of peace, love and light.

[Neville]

Cor blimey, this one is crammed with ideas and imagery that would put many aspiring wordsmiths to shame. There are simply far too many fine lines here that I would have personally been very proud to have penned myself. Bravo my fine literary friend. All Good Things, N

[jacob erin-cilberto]

whether the writing is good or bad in books these days, i am already starting to miss them...all of this e-book stuff..i like turning pages and reading that way...
but there is also something about the depth of society...we are a world of technology...of texting (English teachers hate that) shortcuts of language...the language being raped and pillaged..

so many things that have gone wrong...and there seems not much hope to bring it all back...but as your wonderful last stanza indicates...at least we can love each other...that way we can go down swinging together...

[Terpsichore]

Thanks all. I enjoyed this bit of verbal play. Got to confess, like Woody, I don't entirely understand what I'm going on about; but it was fun.

I wonder if it is too late to kiss and make up?

[ANTO]

What an imagination !!
A magical mystery tour with a difference. Blue meanies was all that was missing for me. We all may be off to Hell in a handcart but at least we'll be together T. Let's show old Nick how we go down with this ship.

[R J Askew]

Love your oilskinned ants and circles of exclamation marks. Like use of 'improvident'. Can hear the 'donkey honking like a dry pump' - know that left right mournfulness. I like the jagged shards of woe and mischance more than the hope in the last verse.

[Woody]

though I can't pretend to understand everything in this poem, I, nonetheless, enjoyed it tremendously. brilliant, Terps. my head is still reeling.
went back to pick favourites. found too many.

[W.k.kortas]

There is a bit of wry dystopian feel through much of this piece, but the final stanza is one of warmth and life-affirmation; normally, I'd say that you couldn't tuck the two together, but this piece is just so damn well built that it is not bumpy at all. To paraphrase the good Chesterton, the is no reason for an excess of criticism here.