Blurred Clusters Beat Your Soft Rimming

Procession of mankind, Gavilast gulping, threading its way to the park, squeezing tight through iron railings. A path through the grass, tamped down by tiny footsteps making their way to the bandstand: mankind without the bile, free from indigestion and heartburn, free from the pull of stomach acid.

The lovers are walks in the park, delicate whispers of grass and the gentle breeze of the sun. They are crickets chirping, glasses clinking, ducks clucking. In the middle of the pond a couple of lovers on a boat are held up by a gang of youths, also in a boat. They, the youths, steal the male lover’s watch, the female lover’s handbag: mobile phone, lipstick, condoms, notebook, pen, iPod nano (plus Philips earphones), chapstick, Wrigley’s Extra. A few weeks later the youths are in court, charged with piracy. The lovers are, of course, elsewhere, tamping down the grass.

My desire, such as it is, is to go back to college and do something creative, something in the arts. I have such a need, such a desire, to express myself. Failing that, I might set up my own business. Sell my house, buy another house, in the country somewhere, express myself through my living. Through, I mean, local crafts and the creation of a big community noise. I could shout down the well, cross streams on stepping stones, fall down dead from the effects of cloudy cider. Engage in rimming parties, get myself rimmed in the pond.

As the poet, he dreams, stares at the ocean or the sky, loses himself in the rural, the pastoral. Beneath his feet, trapped on the soles of his boots, smaller snatches of nature breathing their last. A rhythm as he marches the hills. His tongue, like his pen, firm but pliant, wet, explorative, intrusive.

What flies through broken windows, a growth of midges perhaps, a swarm of mosquitoes, a bevy of bees, wasps and flying ants, small birds, ladybirds, dragonflies, mayflies, various beetles, hummingbird hawk-moths, ginger tappers, mosquitoes, fruit flies, house flies, pollen flies, butterflies, horseflies, crane flies, fungus gnats, sandy flies, deer flies? No, tiny flying robots. In the shape of pterodactyls. Coming through broken windows in order to cause me pain.

Damn their knife-like heads and pointed jaws. Said the zoo keeper/gateman in charge of locking the gates of the dinosaur adventure park as the pterodactyls, to a man, flew out, one by one, nudging the gatekeeper into myriad bruising and eventual collapse, heaped upon the ground. Get up you twat. Said his boss and arch-rival (that is, arch love rival) as he prodded him, the gateman, repeatedly with the wrong end of a brush. That is, the handle end of a brush. Grabbing it, the end of that brush, twisting it from his boss’s hands, the gateman rammed it, the brush, deep through the top of his, his boss’s, head, the entry point through his mouth, up through the roof of his mouth. The pterodactyls, frozen in horror, gazed hungrily at the blood that flowed quickly, prettily, down the brush handle, over its head, dripping lazily from the hairy filaments stitched into the brush’s head. Dripping on to the gateman’s hands. The pterodactyls licked their spiny, shiny lips, whistled through hollow, lazy bones.

Overenthusiastic rimming from a pierced tongue. In the hot tub, in the countryside, right outside the shed/shack with the broken window access for gangs of flying thingies. The water, pink.

I sold my poetry collections at local craft fayres (note, as they say, fancy spelling) and fetes. Published by local small press, Gradgrind (publishers of local small press type poets), I was featured on the back page both pictorially and through the biographical blurb that touched on my love for nature, my passion for green politics and my taste for real ale. The photograph, taken by my ex-wife some many years ago – black and white - depicted me thinner, sans beard, more hair, no glasses. My dalliances in those days with all kinds of fascinating, arty women: big tits, long hair, freckles. You can’t beat them. Really.

Pneumatic powered supergirl, The Red Streakess. Sky flyer, shape shifter, brain scanner. Strength of both body and mind. Freckles, fantastic breasts, legs as long as the days, hair as bright as the sun, breath as cool as the breeze. You would die for her as she would die for you, for all of us. As she did, blown to, as they say, smithereens, carrying a bomb, a device, out of harm’s way, protecting the children. The night sky a full streak of her goodness and purity, her spirit a soar into the heavens, a flicker to the stars. Blessed her being, remembrance our joy.