once upon a clock
my house was but a pile
of cards
dealt badly to me
or so i thought
but as time rolled by
riding a mossless rock
i was inclined to think
i could rebuild my deck
using a straighter arrow
and some crazy glue
and make a  cosy nook to
theorize and dissertate
on the new and better
portion, for to sit on
my plate.
for as the wind blows
it can bring fortunate things
of gilded dust and dedelian
wings.
sonetimes it is the choice that matters.
and somtimes it is ok
to just sit on the dock
and watch it all blow away
but don't watch kettkes.for they are just introvert and shy... now the toaster however
is a pop up kinda guy.
ok so now this garden path is leading somewhere a tad weird
down past the zen all calm and white mountains
to the quirky and a little bezerky secret garden
wall and locked where all the gnomes have ned kelly beards, and the lions are dandy and a titch randy.
the dragon snaps are snippity and the roses
are just **** posers and the camelia's would **** for a good cup of tea.

but enough of the garden tour,
we needs must be giving attention to the
matter at hand tho sleight as it be
we have a house of cards to rebuild

in the corner of my left eye
i feel the blooming  of
a migraine begin
occluding all reason

nailing pain to my brain
and causing civility to flee before the tornado wrath
of assualted sysnapses
time becomes distorted
like algea in a summer pond
the verdancy of the ache
looks pretty
yet underneath i suffocate

the time of darkness
begins...
to bloom like a carrion flower....

the sea mist,
slurs
in drunken lisps.
off the white wave lips
and the wind
takes
the salt an' chinese whispers
away
to the mountain ridge
to meet the clouds
the sea roars it
denial
of all the gossip
sent
and pounds the sand
in frustration...
thus
begins this
discordant day...
forecast  
to end with stormy tantrums.

today i would write,
of the mundane...
the weak tepid tea
place before me.

today i would write,
of the unmatched...
the pile of sock,
singular, but legion,
that grows,
but never lessens.

today i would write,
of the humdrum...
the bills that tap, tap, tap,
incessently, at my brain's
back door.

today i would write,
of the wearisome...
the washing, ironing
and other weekly chores.

today i would write,
of  burdens...
but at present,
i have little, to none.

today i would wait,
(im)patiently...
for the morrow to come.
for then,
i would pen...
happy joyous tomes.

but today i write,
of the mundane....
for it seems,
some one, needs must,
give them fair airing...
for the world,
is not all,
loving, lust and

here be i
sitting in my chocolate boat
floating in the sea of tea
off the point of
the cape of big hopes
sailing fo the isles of little dreams
when the marshmallow
sharks attack...
so i being an intrepid traveller, take out my
peacock feathersword
and tickle their foamy gills

after much hilarious giggling
they, the sharks cry nuncle
and swim off to play in
the garden of the anenomes

and i drink frothy marshmallowy chocolate milk for afternoon tea...

                                 suweet!!!

the sun shines,
on your little golden-head.

as you and the blucat,
hunt lizards, in the garden.

i sit on the step and watch.
my happines,
overflows
and fills the world,
with a rose-tinted glow.

seventeen slimey slugs,
lay drunk and dying,
in the beer bath.
but not before,
their skullduggery,
had been done,in amongst the lettuce and silverbeet.
now made lacework,
by the snipping of slug teeth.

small shy smiles
laughter hidden
behind hands

a brief hesitant touch
turning into  a caress

watching as they walk away
not watching as they return

hiding heartbeats
by moving quickly
just out of reach

i remember young love

small touches
with great meanings
coded messages in small smiles
laughing out loud mouth wide
when spooning is its own pleasure

holding hands and tracing scars
saying i love  you, hearing I love you
as part of everyday conversations
learning to love through hateful times
knowing you can break but will not shatter
knowing the pleasure of knowing their pleasure
finding thousands of ways to create love
working through the boring bits
knowing the others heartbeat by rote
watching them walk away, welcoming them back

this is my season of middle aged  love

in the cold puddles
concentric rings play tag
with the sky flannelled in
shades of grey, soft from
the wind and granite from
the anger of shouted thunder
arguments, the tree's shake
losing what little cover
they have left and stand
stark naked and dripping
on the muddy floor.
the river flows high and
unchecked vomiting brown
bile and wreckage out into
the sea, only for it to become
a puzzle of detrius on the beaches edge
leaving junkheaps and carcasses for
treasure hunters to find....
and still the puddles play
tag with the cold and weeping sky

lists, hustle, bustle
no parking and a cranky
little one....
white knuckled derby
on cart with shonky wheels

dodging packers, shelf stackers
and half the universe(ity)
hungry, tired need to be fed
stuck behind an old couple
could not be worse

no checkout chicks
just the self serve aisle
****** going to be here
for a long slow while

home at last
take the freezer bags in
the rest left in the car
until we break the fast
lasagne in the micro
"someone's momma made it"(???)
bag of salad on the side
so we get some green
"okay troops dig in"

finally all unpacked
stored and ordered
now for my reward
ten minutes of poetry
and a big block of
chocolate sin.

i am a rubebnesque
type of women

and have come to
terms with that.

in fact:
i love my good
jiggly self.
did'nt always
but now i do.

generous *******, *****
and curved belly.
all proportionate
and healthy.

my man does love
my curves,
he can spend
hours carressing their
soft beauty.

they do not stop me
from doing most
anything i wish
although
commonsense dictates
i would not fit through
a too small a hole.

why is then, that when
walking down the street,
people feel they can
throw the word fat
my way...

found...
to be,
accepted,
for one's own self.
at last to be found
and taken from this storm,
this tumultuous **** storm  
and given, a place of refuge...
in the warmth, of another's
                                 heartbeat.

I remember my mother's
black patent leather court shoes
so shiny as to be reflective of my soul
as I stared at them from the floor
of the church, laying between pews
memsmerised by hymns of god's glory
and shiny black shoes


I remember my mother's
black patent leather court shoes
with the crack across the sole
as she put them on to walk the mile
to work, caring for other peoples
sick children

I remember my mother's
black patent leather court shoes
as an adult I sat across from her
dozing form and stared at her feet
malformed by hours of standing
in heeled shoes in operating theatres

I remember, the year we got new shoes
and she had her's patched and repatched
I remember the sighs of relief
as she took off her shoes after a long day
and placed those weary feet into sheepskin slippers,  
bought yearly at the mother's day sales..


I remember these sacrifices
and more as  I help the old lady,
who is my mother with crooked back
and shuffling legs from chair to table
and back again..

I remember with gratitude
the quiet fierceness of her love
I remember my mother's
black patent leather court shoes
and all that they represent...

old.... still,
kind,  
strength steps in,  
new paradigms to be created
all in long, past passion

yet still able,
yet ever will able,
to grow wisdom,


they...out there beyond
find new a rythmn
and  purpose
is it to be....

on all varigated,
arangements..... a new twist
perhaps....
some order, to the paradox
of the aboves.

what our...
never-ever-never world
should be,
we are a realm of
be all, end all, have all.

elephant's, we are to faded parchment memories.
the  mouse within,
loves a quiet,
realm of the wise....  
and careful, considered...
thought

but you...you....
fall beneath the thunder
of my steps...
in vain attempts,
to gain insight into
the hyperbole of my elephant's spinning dance

and the back scratching monkey's  never silent thought's
initiating as they be,
into the colour spectrum
of the latest...
popular...populace, fearful fancy.

be quiet as needs be,
says the mouse
the world will...
awake to wisdom,

spend fruitful time...
awaiting the calm to break

never is it above strength
allowed
the roles, the gifts,
we are given.

be  in on the  elephant's  new rythmn
and far above the monkeys purile, speculation

need, need, needs,rememeber awlays... quiet, desperate passion,  
and to fall gently
beneath the winds of change

be, find, do,
the extra-ordinary
see the kindness in the eyes
of all you encounter
and unfailingly,
return
the hopeful glace

burn, burn the oldest order
set the worlds,
infinite whorls......aright

and then
sing the stars
to sleep...
in the purple,
winkled, wrinkled hours
of the calm and pristine
shadowed span of the night.

I watch you
on this sultry afternoon
over under the flowering plum

back to the bark,
head bent over your
well loved acoustic,

fingers plucking,
stroking, strumming,
fondling... those strings

and I hear the notes
as they drift on the
breeze...
as I hang the bedsheets
on the washing line

the melody is
sweet, sweet seduction...
foreplay in three/four time

and I see in my mind
what those fingers...
strong, scarred and flexible
can do...
           to places sacred, tender
and oh! so divine...

followed by lips and mouth and all....
divinity sublime  and more....

banana driven
to drive one bananas
backseat driver
lodged on one's back
insipid thief
taking bite sized pieces
of one's soul
leaving you feeling less
than whole..
confused about one's role
grinding, prancing,
either way can't stop dancing
riddle-raddled fiddle-faddled
muddle minded ....
listening,
to it's whispering....
takes a terrible toll.

it is amazing to see and
feel the healing properties
of a small boys hug

my little man, and his god father, laz,  are walking hand in hand....tod full of love...and little boy concern
is  touching laz's wounded
heart..

earlier when we first met back up.. tod said..
"lazly.... sorry oozly(his name for sue) went to heaven but
she can pat bobalob(their deceased cat, a beautiful  persian thing) anytime she wants now.....and you can get a doggy now".... and hugged laz tight and tighter
and i will love you bigger than the sky and kissed
lazly on his crying,laughing
eyes....
before hopping off lazly's lap
and saying "come with me i will show you where the blue tongues hide"...

on the desk,
lies a mountain of words.
peaks and valleys
of thought,
tortured or crafted,
into a landscape.

sometimes rich
and sometimes barren

i and my trusty pen,
Red,
must find trails and pathways,
again and again....

with just coffee and biscuits,
on which to survive.
we must criss cross
these foothills and
mountain peaks.

we search for,
inspired thought
and new ground broken.

i am pilgrim...once again.

hope floats
on the gossamer wings
of beautiful dreams
and stings sweetly, exquistely so,
with thoughts of better things.
as you sit, quietly and cry

hope is, undeniable,
to believe you have none;
is like, holding your breath,
eventually,
you have to come undone and take....
a great gulping mouthful
of fresh air.

we all hope, we all breathe,
waiting for, something
on wings of gossamer,
to alight and  let us live anew......again.

insurmountable
undefatigable yet
sitting lost for words

my friend you are here
beaten broken and alone
your choice created this

your ******  pride made this
clusterfuck happen  again
you need to hop down

off your tall pristine
pedestal of hurt hubris
and apologise till

your stupid tongue bleeds
then apoligise once more
and hope she listens

then spend the lifetime
making sure she knows you love her
more than that stupid.......

red pen in hand....
i critique people's thoughts
and dreams

six years at university,
to become a god....
who moulds minds
and delivers future prophecies, ready for unwrapping.

who creates bell curves,
of fail to high distinctions.

that the undergrads,
follow like dancing, pavlovian dogs...

the posts...have slipped
the leash and ...
leave thoughtful piles of...extruded work, in the academic yard.

six years at uni...as a dog
nine years at uni ...as a god.

it is amazing,
how the garnering
of parchments
and strange hats,
can transpose a person's world.

bright, bright spotlight sun

showing my weakness'
to the world......

it has been a week
a big week
full of turmoil and upset
goverments dying
to be reborm

people dying to be
something other or else


words spinning, spitting hate
words tripping, traveling around
creating hope and seeding love

flotsam and jetsam
landing on shores
both foriegn and known

big thing going on
going down

...and yet you still have time
to sit and rub my feet
...and I still have time to let you

life continues.....a pace

the demidiety
of the household,
demands
the sun....
he craves for to bask
in glorious heat....
and have,
the world adore....
his corrugated, gargoyled  blue-grey skinned beauty.
as well it should...
he is....
after all....a rex....
of the mau, bast,  line.

and me, his  loyal
human factotum....
i am here to....
           open the blinds...

perched on the cusp of disaster
looking down into oblivion
but sit we here, safe and sound
in our box of bulletproof glass

watching fireworks explode
and planting landmines
of despair in the land of the free
and sometimes fair

spouting words into air
of greatness and fear
ignoring the lost and scared
counting down the hours
til we can count the money
from over on the otherside
of the world this long ago
stopped being funny

now I can see some say
stop throwing stones
cause your houses is glass too
and your place has lost it's happy day glo

and I say back...yes this is true
we dropped the crystal ball
and are picking up a thousand pieces
and looking for some super glue

but for the moment lets get back to you
perched there, on the edge of disaster
looking down the throat
of a beast ravenous,
with the ethics of a goat
wanting to create some mythical wall
and some mythical moat

his maw cavernous
his need and greed ravenous
down here whilst playing at jigsaw
we watch the polotical beast bloat
and we  kneel and pray,
that his speech is just rhetoric
and this world don't fall
into war .....
as he cries wolf speak words
of the morally bankrupt
and compassionate poor
and his words of greatness
grate and draw, tears of sadness
from those cleaning up the gore

in my nightmare,
i walk across plain,gibberous
of melted blue grey glass.

in my nightmare,
the voices of the
four winds whisper,
words fetid and foul,
of love lost
and left behind.

in my nightmare,
the sun scowls
and rips the water
right from my lips.

and i walk on feet,
of bones stripped bare.

and i search,
horizon to horizon
but see only,
blind hope mirages,
fading away.

and my voice echoes,
in my calamitous mind,
calling names of kin and kind.

and my skin sloughs from
my flesh, to sizzle on the ground.

and inside,
the cage,
of xylophone ribs.
a wizened walnut heart
no longer beating,
to ordered time.

and my skull,
now, a hollow drum
of rattling, mutton-headed thoughts,
constantly bleating.

in my nightmare,
i am laid bare
and found wanting, needing,
longing.

in my nightmare,
you are not there.

in my nightmare
there is...
no one else, anywhere.

in my nightmare
i am alone
        all alone....
                      and that,
    scares, the **** out of me!

from the rust,red soil,
the nastursiums come.

first as tendrils, spiderlike
then, the little, disc umbrella leaves.

green and expectant,
in the sub-tropical,
late,winter sun.

and soon the riotous ladies,
come with skirts of colours
bold and joyous
resplendent in the party wear

then, they will run and skip
in rampant dance,
over rocks, tree stumps
climbing up the old fence.

with pepper in their tongues
and cheerful smiles.

they are one of summer's, most happy boons...
and soon and soon,
they come,
from the rust red soil
                               they come...

on the breakfast table
placed carelessly
with great love
in an old busted
coffee mug
a handpicked bunch
of  fresh peonies
still damp and dewy
pale pastel linensilk flowers
crumpled and beguiling
beside, a note
my love is but a garden
that blooms for you..
each and everyday.

ok, things are getting better!!

got my ducks all waddling
in a row.
my tin solidiers standing
to attention in a line.

my cats all in pyjamas and spats...(gotta tell ya that one was a bit tricky).
also put mittens on those
curious kittens.
don't want them dying,
ya know.

the mutt, is busy looking for
nuts.

and i made the elephant
comfortable in this small room.  
he is now, chatting with
the paper tiger,
over by the fireplace

my fish swimming happily
in their barrel.
and the bees,tending
busily to arthritic knees

so almost all is well...

but sheeesh!!!
my geese are running around pell-mell
and are likely to give
the mittened kittens
a fainting spell.
all that,
honking and flapping about
mother goose going to hell.


so....... now......
the ducks are wandering
tin soldiers, planning
a gruerilla wafare attack.
the cats now  naked
****!!!
how did they,
get out of those spats.
the mutt still looking
nothing, will stop that
fool dog, those nuts are,
looooong gone.
elephant is embarrassed,
the tiger squashed flat.
fish, floating, not swimming.
now food for the cat.

and the bees and their
knees are creating
stinging, verbal retorts.

....as for the geese
and the mittened
kittens....
they have, commandeered
the black forest torte
and are gulping it greedily
down.

so... it is certainly not me,
no siree,
who is  in charge of this madhouse mind,
in this mindless town
of mine.
not me,
who wears the king's crown.

you will find me,
the fool......
down by the pool,
....sunbathing...
when all this weird ****
is going down..

**nothing to see here,
move along,
nothing to see....

Captain's Log,
rough seas this morning
as we sailed into
Port Hangover
first mate Asprin taking double shift
as is galleymate Coffee. Unable to make headway against megrim winds.
Also having difficulty navigating nausea reef,
may need to run aground
on Throwasickie island
as vision is becoming blurred.
Put present difficulties
down to attack of tannins, whilst sailing
wide red wine sea,
last watch.

it is sunday morning,
early....
the boys, still asleep
the nanna,  still asleep
just me....
and the recently fed,
but hoping for more,
blucat shadow,
walk in the garden,

leaving imprints in
the dew laden grass.
i make my way,
with murping shadow
to the fish pond.
we, sit upon the rocks
and watch the koi,
glide smoothly by...

i slowly introduce my
hand,
to the still night-cool water and wait....
for the fish kisses.
the blucat is entranced,
eyes intent on the slow moving tails,
ears forward and twitching....

overcome by
such blatant tempatation,
he makes a swipe
at the gold and black  
goodness.....
and in a flash.....
they are gone ....and he,
is left sheepishly licking
a wet veleveteen paw....

back to me....
not wanting to
see me laughing
.....at his foolishness.

i come home
to
a mexican standdoff
of
sorts

on the inside
of
the window
the
little blucat
with
firebrush tail
and
arched back

facing off against

the big
busterfer jones
tom
from 3 doors
down

black
and white
persian
moggy
more than
twice
the size
of gus blucat


pressed
up
against
the outside
of the glass

normally
the
best of buds
but
there is
a
new girl
in town
and
she sings
a siren song

so it is
bared claw
at 3 paces

as i
put down
my keys
there is a
muted
thump,
thump.

they have
rushed
each other

forgeting
the magic
of glass

and now
as i
finish
r.o.l.f.ing

i see
they
have
retired
to their corners

with that
was'nt me
that did that
dumb thing
look

as they
wash their
paws
with backs
speaking volumes
and eyes still
crossed.

" I would like to be
the air that inhabits
you for a moment only.
I would like to be that unnoticed & that necessary"*
    Variations on Sleep
                 Margeret Atwood

to be inhaled
into your essence
to become your
breath in this world

to  inhabit the marrow
of your soul

is but a dream

for we are,
different components
different aspects

needed to compliment
needed to inspire
the pthers aspirations
needed to question
the motive
to mobilise the heart
to gain forward momentum

we do not subsume each other...
we are become,
to one another
catalysts
gunpowder and fuse
lit.....to make the world explode...

we are not each others breath....
but,
we are each others,
reason
to breathe...



What do you dream of
my love...
I watch you twitch and murmur....
are you a big brave hunter....
or something less ferocious...
tis no matter to me....

i love you and if you could walk me dreams with me
you would know that there
you are a gentle hero

fingertips,
twitch itch and burn
with need

need to touch
torch-hot flesh
to feel, white-hot soul
ooze through thin-skin membrane

toungetips rake softlips
stealing murmurings
of heart and head
leaving desire
simmering  there instead

yearnings, deeper delvings
desperate dionysion delusions
draining staining steaming seeming
never ending mind bending soul rending ***

stealing silent sombulent kissses
of fearful guilty farewell
trip tip-toeing doors silently closing
need hosing, shamful moseying away
from who the....what the...oh hell!

fingertips tapping drumming
hunover mind blown but still hummin
no excuse away from home and lonely
awaiting the bill, cash only,
cause credit be evidence of crime of illicit time

now despondent knowing heart-sore
bad to the bone core, never wash away rime
dang, stuffed up to one's own detriment
balancing on earth-quaking, slip-sliding
no-place, nowhere to be hiding, mudsliding firmament
thinking deep, dark, stark stupidity rules
now just me the jester and the fools
all counting the cost and consequence
of one night, tispy cheap drunk nasty, nasty  thrill

the bellRINGS
                     tinitubular
sending curlique vibrations
             of sound unseen
but felt at the very  heart
of the core
            and then there isJOY
floating around in moted
                          DEFIANCE
small smidgens fall like        
              MANNA
on the thirsting ground.
   and in this simple action of grasping at  INSPIRATION
we the poets
                    hear
                         the ECHOES  
                of lives unlived
and see the beauty of        
                               DREAMS

yet to be broken
                and in that
                        small moment
we are the KEEPERS of the
                     world  
WITHIN the bells that are
                              RINGING

and we would get up early
so early that the stars
would still sit high
in the dark night sky

we would drink milo
out of plastic cups
and eat oval arrowroot biscuits
spread thickly with butter

we would line up to go to the loo
one last time before piling into
the old car, sliding across bench seats
half our world packed into the boot

then we were off, on the old country roads
still sleepy for the first couple of towns
stopping at Jacaranda for a cup of tea
lukewarm, milky and sweet from the thermos
half a cheese sandwich each, and a fearful trip
to the draughty long drop toilet...looking for redbacks
the whole time, but only finding spinning daddy long legs

after that back into the car, for two hours of
winding our way down, the big hill,
listening for the clearnote  call of the bellbird,
watching for wallabies and wombats on the road fringe
and the bigger kangaroos, bouncing away
across the clearings...

at the bottom of the hill, Grafton a quick stop
to stretch our legs eat the cupcake,
used to bribe us into decent behavior up to that point
and another vist to the conveniences.
before the run down the coast,
past the big white resort
and into Brooms Head,
for a week of surf and sun
fish and chips, buckets of prawns,
frosty fruits and sunny boys
in tent and caravan,  
swimmers and towels,
we were tribal and free,
roaming the tideline
staying up at the campfire,
sleeping and waking
with the birds......
always such an adventure....
those idyllic days of summer

my cat has dreams.
while sound asleep,
his little grey legs,
flex and run.
his ears ***** and tail lashes. he chatters that funny little hunter's cry.
sometimes i watch him
and smile,
thinking in his dreams,
he must be a panther or lion on the savanah,
or up a jungle tree stalking his dinner,
as does, a big sleek animal roaming.

some mornings,
when i wake.
from a deep sleep,
of half remembered dreams. i open my eyes,
to find my little cat watching me.
i ponder,
whether he attributes dream's meanings,
to my, nighttime
twitchings too.

sadness
seeps
silently
from
beneath
her
lashes
spreading
salted
w­ater
down
her
cheeks,
sighing
she
swipes
the
offending
sorrow
aside...
smiles
­and
steps up
into
the
startling
bright
spotlight
to
sing
the
saddest
of
songs
......

scintillant bodies flicker
blink and fade in a  darkness
beaming in charcol waves

indigo trees rustle and sway
in tribal dance, as the sea
beats out the metre
on the hard packed sand

on the wing, dark birds
cry lust, death and desolation
and mice write wills and testements
on dry dust paths, before signing
them with a squeak of suprise

in the creek, the platypus rises
and subsides with a quiet splash
surprised by a large form drinking

the frogs write and sing deep bass  arias
with the cicadas and crickets providing chorus
and amongst it all a high pitched perping
from what beast, I cannot recall

we pass now from summer warmth
to the crisp catching cold of autunm nights
darker for the rain cloud weather
making the moon an erethal wreath
if seen at all...

out off the coast a patch of luminous blue
gives of wonder as bio luminescence
holds a small patch of sea in it's thrall

in the morning more leaves
will colour, fade and fall,
the circle continues
from day to day...
                        simply heeding nature's call

my left foot,
is the one,
that now drags
yet my right breast
is the one
that has begun to sag
it's just a matter of balance
you see.

i have what i want...
and
sometimes more
yet
still i whinge
and whine, like a bore.

i am loved and blest
with husband, child,
a cat and, the rest.

but still somedays
i know...
i have failed life's little
tests

and somedays
i am way, way,
short on zest.

they tell me
i am,
peri menopausal
and that may well explain ....some of the above.

my hair is graying
and my waist ....
best not mention,
my waist(overound).

and to be honest
there are days,
i feel like i am fraying
around the edges.

but not,
going to complain
at least,
not loudly
for that may give
the impression
i'm vain....
and really i'm not...

i am just a....
middle aged mother
slowly....losing the plot.

I am here
sitting quietly
in the corner

reading,
absorbing,
day dreaming

I am alright
well as alright
as one can be
a month and a bit
on from the death
of a parent.

There is much to do
a life to get on with.

But there is a quiet
in my soul, not harmful
or depressing, just stillness

Like waiting for a train
in a sleepy country station
it will come when it comes
until then just sit and wait
drowse in the sunshine
enjoy the view,
remember love.

Perhaps soon the train will come
and I shall return...

letters sit
in order,
line by line
at attention,
waiting for
thoughful reading.
a road,
of sorts,
to redemption
sitting, mulling
ruminating on
scripted worth.
engaged in
conveying thought,
from mind
to page,
to mind
again cyclical,
periodic conversely,
intermittent reoccurrences.

alone most,
are little
strokes of
graphite or
ink calligraphy,
mutterings of
little intonations,
phonectic sonances,
utterings, begetting
for their,
episodic isolation,
mumbo, jumbo,
gibberish as
birthing rooms
but together
ordered, united,
babble becomes
lucent, lucid
oratory of
inordanate worth.

along the lace-edged surf
I walk looking for message bottles
but today the sea is silent

little ***** and rings
of metal move
as he talks

three studs,
on his eyebrow
wander like a slugish
overfull caterpillar

the bullring ring in his nose,
condenses with each breath
of the frigid  winter morn

and his earlobes swing and dangle
with blocks and spheres
of a dark wood like substance

I ask him, does that hurt,
he deigns not to answer.....

We get on with the matter
at hand, his idea for a thesis;
with regard to dramatic reflection
in Shakespearean adaptations

He speaks of Othello, Richard III
and Romeo and Juliet....
the use of water, sunglasses and mirrors

I ask if he believes there is 70000+ words
in his exploration of reflection....
all the time watching the metal caterpillar
try to escape the forest of his eyebrow....

He sighs, and the bullring mists over
the ears lobes waggle and waft around.
He states not really sure......but he likes the idea
I send him off to look for other plays
Shakespearean or not that he could include
in this work.....and to come back in a month
with a precis and chapter plan....

He leaves, shoulders slumped, muttering
and I think....I may have added  one more peircing
to his intellectual life