Disquiet barge engulfed with broken wheels
meanders awkwardly. Civilian berths
traduced by megalomaniac pursuits.
Indelible remarks scuff lemon ears
at twilight where the rooftop tumbles always.
Boulders in tea-cups held by heavy hands.
The minimalist will only rob a bank
to rid it of its money; fortune favours
the broke. The elemental herbivore
will save the world with dietary choices.
Catch with your eyes and fill your clumsy hands;
the aftertaste of metalwork arrives.
Avoiding prepositions for the fear
of repetition. Pardoned parcels lighten
the heavy carpet testament: religion
for floors; music for armchairs; art for art’s sake.
A caravan of tables makes its way
across Saharan sand dunes, carried sideways
by time and fortune. Life will spill its life
on the nearest surface available.
Lights become lights when switched with other lights,
the ones which always/never work. Be still.
Be being. Be whatever you must be.
The last line’s not a hymn to being sung.
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