The Cloak Wears Thin
Under the Soaking Rain
Clings to the Skin
too Close no Comfort
just Cold Pain
walk over Concrete
the City won’t be washed off without
needful kinetics
sins without sadness
saints without pain
killer kisses on the
blood soaked vein
Fun-Wall.
It’s raining outside it is house cold inside, a few days hence
it will be show time and fucking spruce trees everywhere.
I’m not going to buy a manicured sapling, an oak! Yes.
I willing plant an oak sapling it in my garden, if I ever get
to have one; a pot plant, on concrete painted green, calls
it my garden; in telling, it gets huge fitted around a nine hole,
golf course, how is anyone to know, my friends live inside
the internet and they are equally abstract.
I have faked everything about myself told them I’m a poet,
my poems are written by my grandmother, found the stuff
when I was clearing up in the attic, and before setting fire to
the house claiming the insurance money; it backfired, (pun)
the old lady never bothered to insure the dwelling. I live in
stable now vacated by donkeys that have vanished from our
the landscape; but never mind that misery, I feel in my bones
there will never be a summer just like the one that just left
If I write a funny story on the wall the sneakes across palestinian land, will they laugh or feel offended?
