I twist and
a rainbow of dewdrops falls and spatters,
painting the ground with a drip-drip.
My foliage is a good green -
kaleidoscopic, psychotropic.
With a subtle motion
I satisfy an itch, and
the resulting flash-of-colour-flood
leaves a couple of dull worlds below
filled with satisying screams,
but instead of words,
bubbles of pink and and yellow and orange
float up to pop on my ears.
So This Is Hell, Huh. I’ve had enough of that dishwasher shit.
—–
Spoon is cold in his bowler hat -
these days, he wears little else.
Sidling into the club at a quarter to eleven
he reflects the sexuality of jazz,
dancing with Lady Fork – that is, until
Mister Fork arrives with a glare and brass knuckles.
Spoon warms up in the glow of alcohol
the barkeeper knows him well, so after many years of
conversations and tips, he lets him have a few whisky
on the house. Cheers, says Spoon. I’ve never been happier,
and I killed myself today.
There is a novella in the oven.
My braincells have stopped laying around on the beach and have returned to their frenetic university-style lives - partying every night.
Pretty sure the novella is entitled “Terrorist Cell”.
It’s about beautiful people.
