Entering the Brewers' farthest door on the right naturally placed within the local drinkers' mischievous grin at departing Dave (began at ten a.m.)'s expense. Oo-ay take a look at that sashay! ferret scoffs as rest of the crew observe their drunk traversing Hope Square. Jazzer another one isnt but cigar & forgotten season's corduroys Charleston jacket & shoes amplify first & last response to sloshed mascot's exit. With gravitas : Don't laugh --when everyone's happy that's the good life… But Dave's at the bottom of a cold sea. No undertow so insidious as self-
loathing. Interloper me'll have his mister in- sist the softness of any day enfolding rib & limb against the unreliability of night to deliver even a black bandage around sore eyes & head. I name him Sir Geoffrey. What else is he good for beneath the Evening Star? Cronies deflect him back-on-your-bike! Say nothing darling lest the whole world calls you out as a fake. For my part around dusk there's the path's cold curl to navigate --siren-rushes --footpad thorns of memory --Stranger's ache for epiphany -- my pitch-dark boat's slow row across the reedy lake.
Looked everywhere for this 12 x 12 Radipole/Weymouth poem! Originally #200 of the Millennium Poems collection (1997-2000). Not sure now if it's part of one of the English sequences or still in the Millennium! But this day it sits with your lovely series of photographs!
Entering the Brewers' farthest door on the right
ReplyDeletenaturally placed within the local drinkers'
mischievous grin at departing Dave (began at
ten a.m.)'s expense. Oo-ay take a look at that
sashay! ferret scoffs as rest of the crew observe
their drunk traversing Hope Square. Jazzer another
one isnt but cigar & forgotten season's
corduroys Charleston jacket & shoes amplify
first & last response to sloshed mascot's exit. With
gravitas : Don't laugh --when everyone's happy that's
the good life… But Dave's at the bottom of a cold
sea. No undertow so insidious as self-
loathing. Interloper me'll have his mister in-
sist the softness of any day enfolding rib
& limb against the unreliability
of night to deliver even a black bandage
around sore eyes & head. I name him Sir Geoffrey.
What else is he good for beneath the Evening Star?
Cronies deflect him back-on-your-bike! Say nothing
darling lest the whole world calls you out as a fake.
For my part around dusk there's the path's cold curl to
navigate --siren-rushes --footpad thorns
of memory --Stranger's ache for epiphany --
my pitch-dark boat's slow row across the reedy lake.
[1999-2011/14, Weymouth & Melbourne]
Looked everywhere for this 12 x 12 Radipole/Weymouth poem! Originally #200 of the Millennium Poems collection (1997-2000). Not sure now if it's part of one of the English sequences or still in the Millennium! But this day it sits with your lovely series of photographs!
ReplyDelete