- Don't believe the night is dark because I'll paint it yellow
You'll be the star in stark contrast with the constellations of motherhood and dispossession
I'll dog myself and howl at you, unrepentant
- Silly you! To paint stable relationship you need the stability of lunar seas
I am quite tired to have my water broken by ravenous angels who are angry for love and so on
When your daughter grows she can flog you because of your inactions
- Unheard were her cries because the children in the park were so rowdy
Then the dark came, and all the men in the borough felt the remembrance of love
I locked the back door and even the mouse droppings along the canal cannot fall on deaf ears
Maybe we should hire wailing women and pretend a funeral parade
-That would be too dark and I need a love which is customary
A love which comes in stripes of men who are defeated and redefine the self
They have no tongue but quest for egos and tabula rasa
In emotional constipation live fathers after birth that so much giving leave them emaciated and
ladies don't understand that the toddler sucked their flesh
Of course woman feels unloved and so man misunderstood
How much more? How much more? How much more?
Will you believe me when you grow up?
Will you eat me when I get old?
The richness of my mind
The worlds in my sage.
The sandcastle you built in the hourglass of our time in unison.
Only regret the unspoken.
Only eat the wilted.
Only serenade the martyrs
Because I will live forever to be with you.
Daddy is not fade
As a badger spades tunnels in garden of memories
And you, as a refugee of familiar triumph, toddle in them.
Oh! Ungrateful fleshy rabbit,
Jump on me
Let's dine stew of hearts and mash of sentiments.
Let's paint the night and stomp on colour tube of exotic infancy
to erase our dynasty of failure.
Don't say thank you
to the dead fish you overfed to kill,
To the decapitated doll,
To the dupe you over licked upon the window screen of daddy's car.
Shall we? Rain has always been leaking in our hut and you found the bread moldy and mices rustling and black & white rainbows.
Nature has been ugly in CV and you get stoned by music or poetry or self induce a dream or shout out day like parrot. Repeating words to show presence but...
Are you the most invisible? No advice from the school governor, the bus conductor, the ballet coach. You listen to the racing driver and envision yellow sunflowers and the long hair of hay.
Adulterated by summer and yellow should be the life of our daughters.
Never say thank you for black & white rainbows.
Shut up! You are a rebel ,a riddle, a thorn, a fanfare without a brass
I don't want you hear, demolisher of life, the cries of our babies, in the autumn of our relationship.
Disguiser, speculator, worm in rotten apple, rodent of ideas and wedding rings, shut up!
Our baby is fast asleep and may a giant bubble invisibly protect him from soothsayers.
You cannot gamble the gender, age and number, the nationality and the search for god
May she be what she will be and haul her over the stars
Shut up! You broke the fence, run away with the enemy and the fox broke through
It could have assaulted the baby and bite her
Where is your heart nobody knows and the lullaby says ' Open the venter there is a rodent…'
Gnawing at fatherhood, empathy, resentment , decorum, the things you hide online,
falsehood, quick sale of fidelity, why did I marry you…
Shut up! Even Jesus seems skinny on the cross
Striking a pose, keeping up appearance comes across as a male thing
But love in partners is a recoil of love in daughter
Reflection of our parents' final tears
Do the right thing, shut up
May she be what she will be.
We didn't have defence for the flu, the ball was running through the cars and the postmen delivering bad news had to stop at the traffic lights, like an open field of rye where your grandparents scythe.
Luckily the stranger hits the ball which hits the fence which hits the post which bursts an ocean of people onto my head.
That's when I understood pregnancy as want for people.
A society incubated in pipes relaying aliments, ointments, the vacuity of televised tournaments.
We are afraid.
We defer mortality.
Without flesh there is not love but we don't want to pollute and the touch is interdict and the love is in the making not in the abstraction.
Idealization, procrastination, post-gratification, extension of time always the more remote...
We put bodies to wail and in the waiting for something precious and aulic
But if in our genetic thrones will sit robots, who will inherit the Earth ?
We forget to be children of men.
We forget the Now, the Here, the present of Season in this hecatombe which is my love for you.
I''ll protect, I'll hang to my eyes the seed of loving, humid with tears untimely.
Please gift a facsimile accident to petrify my heart so may I free this love from the contrition of time.
Shave my days as smooth as bottoms of babies.
(The incident above is about the toddler in the cold chasing a balloon between cars with father aghast but the bold stranger is able to retrieve and normality is restored and the sedative reality may resume).
The swan doesn't retain the white they gift him for advertising ends
It honestly goes down as all the simple birds with a petulant beak
Never sated with his timorous eyes and moving to plea the kids who visit the stream.
What did they do to you, swan?
How can you be dependant on poor's stale when you have such a yield in fairy tales and this poem?
Go away, dishonour your feeder, peek in the kindergarten by the canal and do me the favour, to check if my daughter is well fed.
Swan, teach the babies ballet.
Cage our humanoids in the zoo in Fassnidge park and hit me in the face with peanuts.
Can I catch them? What do I live for?
You should reconsider your body weight, a white mass of plumes may discourage visitors.
Hazy between hugging or riding you, they abandon you.
You are bride in waiting … Our little ones are abandoners.
Kids and ducks catch worms nowadays.
The ducks quack, children choir says 'How are you, ducks?' and the ducks quack.
Without response you suffer solitude, swan, instead.
I strongly advise you to shock parents with words.
Tell them about nymphs at Bath
Tell of Englishmen with light-hearted sandals pacing atop snow
Tell when Albion was a peninsula, and swans were parachuted in a publicity stunt, to colonise the country with their purity.
With their purity.
As the rubbish is taken out by me only noticed by me loved by me
as the frost is palpable in my hands unguarded on the dustbin of the skirmish we had pre dew
as your right to say: 'Not enough is done in the house!'
Let's leave it and mute it.
Please be silent please as gestation in a womb
I'll recount the scenery of what you missed
Because you breed discontent through words which may be imperfect
While images are so precise...
You still asleep in dreams and to ask your dreams if they were inclusive of me
It is a thing.
Amiss is my posture lifting the compost at 7 am and my brow creased to add semblance of labour
just to show the milkman's open cart going through the road, first of the ladies who go cleaning and feel the breeze most,
following whoever in veil guides school kids in dark anorak in the cold breath
of teachers, of big faced monsters, of places of captivity and no reward
We are we, the apostles of hygiene.
Spread a flamboyant white sheet on our unkempt alcove
to gather all the dew of the Earth.
Silence. Absence. Stuttering. Incapability. Too much emotion. Help but the shutters are down!
WHAT'S SOLD HERE?
We debeard naughty men to make peluche toys, we clarify mermaids appointing new tails, we prescribe medications to old ladies and we make peace between generations.
Early mornings are spent squeezing the cows, milk is gifted to a tribe of cats in confined areas.
In a mine we send humans to work everyday, the battering of their hammers on stones is used to tell the time.
We are the dogs in charge of welfare, we do the assistance.
We push the wheelchairs up to the hill and descend prompt in the arms of relatives bound to accept the incapable.
But we love the toddlers and they call us names and imitate our woof.
They appreciate our custom, we run the big pharmacy in the square and take the drops of gaiety syrup, if not in The Dog's Village you cannot live.
To participate, ticket is needed from big Mandrake man when circus comes.
Leaving sticks and heels, we send lazy breeds to ride or lean on.
And the prams are conserved in the concierge where puppies read books to children.
Blond young boy is making a puzzle of London sharing with pretty baby girl in purple dress.
Optimistic image of the city.
Since the dogs took control, crime on moped is down – English setters chase and slash their tyres.
We tend our garden, the dogs dig and hide guns in the dirt, the hideous ones forced to roll up a Sisyphus' ball and transgender fairies crawl and howl at the full moon .
We gain the fireflies fly again.
You saved a wretch like me, you cannot even talk and put this mind in a sanatorium because I don't need to think to be all heart to you
The policemen in the city cannot breastfeed and raucous kids dishevel our roof gutters
and play at it like swords
It's unknown if Mona Lisa was mother but the lady in the park this morning
in these days of dead leaves, of November, of remembrance, of hallow's eve, of golden leaves
sat the toddler on those leaves and took a snap, and I like the confidence in how she did it.
Her smile was younger than her.
An unhinged blonde lady with a ripped jacket and a pink bra above it stormed into our cafe while we were having babyccino, yelling something but none gave her any attention. She was seeing later confronting an Indian lady in the square who in response throws a bottle at her.
There are good days and
buds of goodness even in murky,
And as my conviction the benevolence of the face is a proclivity for hydrated skins,
the repetition of good deeds makes voluminous hair and glittering skincare and contributes to the mental sanity of the people.
k here to edit.