Hair on the chest business

May I hold on, not tenderly, (perhaps quite terrified),
to your green cagoule, under the elm tree by the statue
of Bernard Shaw and look at you looking at the ducks with your
no doubt profound thoughts, of Lamborghinis, petrol, pink
newspapers, and poetry falsely attributed to me, Robert Burns,

until those awful animals quack and all things are spoiled.
May I take your marble teeth to my ashen heart, look
into your uncle’s bedroom window as he shaves
his teeth, and coordinate all the shattered objects
that can be coordinated on such short notice,

the air, all the while, as soothing as fire is soothless,
with monkeys and forever, wet, bejewelled under the flowerbeds
in which a flap-capped, big pocketed sailing
miner whistles, in adagio, the allegro ma non troppo
of Beethoven’s sixth symphony,

and attributes it to a mixture of himself
and fishnets of light, trawling
the enormous pupil of space. Aliens may watch us
here, on this hill with a telescope on top, may watch
us watching the city, as we pretend

to do so, having, no doubt, profound thoughts
of rubble, grease, mooing, and Charles Baudelaire,
of grain, rain, the brain of the sky, and all the oranges
that are broken into segments before being eaten, or vice versa.
They may clap us out of politeness.

by Col. Baldwüllz

One thought on “Hair on the chest business

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