The Outsider

-
It’s Monday and they’re here
The bluebells I mean
Their timid arrival trumpeted
By one final clarion call
From some sheepish looking daffs
Like stragglers from yesterday’s marathon
The Crataegus monogyna
blossom spatters
Nettle leaves and ivy making
Polka-dot pattern below eyeliner
Stagnant millpond water wafts
I’m not going to beat myself up
Over rhyme and reason
Just walk and observe
Flinching briefly at the sight of a gnarled
Pendulous snail hanging from a twig
Twisted black plastic bag
Doggy do doggy don’t
A document of owners urge to forget
Birdsong drifts through the trees
Mingling with human utterances
Pastel polo shirts glimpsed between branches
Titleist specs upon the fairway visible
If Camus had been a golfer would he have felt?
More connected?




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

COSMIKNOT > nomadic freedoms of the LyrriK Voyce

-
Image
the solution is a bassline and an ancient future outlook. Onward to p.e.a.c.e. Platforms Athens CosmiKnot spins the vestiges of the fake problem into duct tape fixing a funeral barge sailing to the moon with the precision of a tru throw away note trailing from the crumpled horn of 1/4 million miles Davis   Curated by Dr Mikey Georgeson and Samuel Zealey   30th March - 15th April AVA, UEL, E16 2RD A collective speculative temporary community. Re-enchanting the region of disenchantment through the shifting myth-concepts of Aesthetic Ontology.   CosmiKnot is a space to gather in community as social unit to understand through the speculative ritual of Perforum We selected artists with conviction in weaving specific contingent personal mythology into shifting performative ritual transformation of encounter with a materially vital entity that speaks back.   My-Key Hassan Aliyu, Yasmeen Ally El Araby, Bry Ford, Caroline Gregory, My-key, Isabell Metsäpelto, Tony Moon, Venetia Nevill, Ade Ogund
Read more

Blackberry Picking

-
Image
Blood and brambles Bloody Shambles Cameron gambles On Hardline angles "its criminality undiluted" Nations youths have been poluted And while economy takes a tumble I'm at home making blackberry crumble Filled with fruits harvested in scrubland Behind Sainsbury's full of thorns and Smelt of decaying vegetation Seemed emblematic of the nation Made my young son feel ill at ease Paths ill defined,shapes in the trees Such physical pursuits to him Seem unnecessary and alien I tell myself it does him good As any self-respecting father would Hands made for grasping a controler Each bramble scratch will make him wholer But now its my hands that are stained With crimson juices - fear I've refrained From doing this when he was younger And somehow bred one more war-monger But thorny pricks upon my skin Convince me I should not give in. Who needs another liberal deserter In face of national inertia? Instead of always asking why? Perhaps we should
Read more