markbousfield

DOWNTURN

Show creature's intent,
beckon taunt tannings
in the early throttles of sunrise,

dulcet groans in my quickening ear
stare down the parlour stars,
he wishes he knew if she had come

only to rattle
without a meep,
cold and outside on the downside

he sits
crouched sucking a cigarette
kicking vintage Cola bottles around the bins out back.

The freedom to obey holidays
slips in like a sly fingering,
screams of England eloquently practised.

Who knew?
Pressing pamphlets into the hands of strangers
in Camden Town,

But on the pavement with the discarded alcohols
they preach the left of the right,
the right of the right,

rifle the MEP that a-crudits
'Not in my name!'
So there wields Richard de Chili,

with his toothless saxophone
blowing alone in the cubicle
long vacated by ole Ginger Pete,

sitting abreast apart,
legslike,
plays a game of dices or two

all Semillion and Chardonnay sashay,
they sit heavy and he's quashing,
arm muscles jostling

gandering east to rising Mother Mary,
all-a-gathered at Siren's hill
spittling warring words

making daisy madly
dreams occurring through the words of liars,
not cheaters.