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
at least 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
the vision master is acting crazy
wants to make a baby
and everything has gone
three leg race hazy
and the veiled widows sit and weep.

I can see you in the rain
barefoot shave minded
once again and again
mud sliding on the navigator tracks
with your mind and spine
slung over shoulder
in a zip mouthed bag
and the owl and dog
don't waste a second look
steaming up dry windows
by the stove indoors
burning books.

Raindrops run on telephone wires
little silvered messengers
of other peoples verbalisations
the endless variety of conversation
through the beautiful telecom curves
across this twisted land
smoothed as if drawn freehand
I hear the yelling
the barks and coughs
nearly blew me holy hat right off
made me jump right out me clogs
leaving exclamation marks
arranged in circles
round me ever dancing feet
and the scarecrows head for the middle distance
and the crows are in for a treat
some tricky treat some time next week
when the scarecrows return
and bring the sticky heat.

Strange things are occuring
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 sea gull
gained the chill of death gone hot
and 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 once more we hunt
for shots of penicillin
in the cobwebbed pharmacy
just one more little bottle
of electric baby syrup
old copybooks of accounts
so briskly dusty
there are no decimal points here
Einstein don't live around here
just staggered columns
of handwritten figures
machine gunned pages of zeros
and several acres of old disused tin mines
millions of toxic blooded heroes
and the meek whisper of time
and the children of moles
crouch behind stalks
bags on their heads hiding
frozen like orange candy
too scared to shoot
too unsure to talk
too scuttled to walk.

Now we are twined up
in wraiths of sea fog
standing and staring pointlessly
as if resigned to fate
like lonely dogs' home dogs
and somewhere out there is a donkey
lost and lonely too
honking like a dry pump
and then there is just silence
and it makes us jump
and perhaps we are both just helpless...
or plain foolish here
in the land of nowhere
perhaps this would be a good time
to endeavour to love
one another all we possibly can
in case we should one day die
or at least we could promise
solemnly
to at least try.