The Bear In The Waistcoat Has Lost His Balloon

Woodland comes on strong

As poor as a mulch rug

And yet I eat it up

Like so much soggy cereal

In September rain.

Man breakfasts on

Death's back,

Careful not to drop his

Fork

And keeps his sandwiches in the trees,

Unopened like needles,

Nests sticky and promising.

Three flayed chests

On three seperate nights

Stick ice in camping trips

With one season bags

And fingers retreat

Over the conifer map.

I walk it, a Wodwo

With a beard starred

In Tracker bars and

Optics glowing

With mineral water.

Massive shoulder,

Humped ancient

And licked from

Woodpiles

And an old stupid

Growling.

As oblique as a stage device.

As dumb as a man.

 

He is watched,

His impossible teeth

Sheathed and a theory,

Eyes lost to horrid confusion

And a fetish for plastic

Yoghurt pots.

He sees piled harmless

Pork rinds,

Screaming silent and unhurt,

His own painful nature

Cut out of him,

With a disc round and grooved

And aching meat

Pureed smooth

For old jaws

And rheumatic paws.

He gathers the trees

Like a sorceror his books

And performs no magic.

Just wrinkles his snout

At some imaginary sauerkraut,

Flicking his claw

To some glowing roots

Like mushrooms,

With ideas,

Writing books.

◄ In A Balloon Over The Sea

Two New Ones ►

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