Delta40
05-09-2011, 05:52 PM
I squat down ad hoc
as if I have defected from
yestertime like a weary lang syne.
Chanting toe taps reverberate
as I lift my layered skirts and p**s.
I threw back an urn of café au lait,
and let a cigarette burn itself out
till thoughts of you ignited my mind.
Now it bolts, veering across the road,
kicking rubbish bins down graffitied alleyways
of loathsome existences.
It frolics and cavorts past Banksy,
paints a Groucho moustache and
lunges toward oncoming traffic.
I magically spin like a whirling dervish,
delighting in the scent of burning rubber.
Caffeine sweat beads trickle down my neck.
The gelid air muffles every psalm
of such zealous doxology.
Gasp at my quest to discover Stengehone.
A comic rat with a truncheon approaches.
Steady now. The curtained wall is where you
will find it bye the bye.
Pierced by my stiletto it remains still.
There vermin! My pinnacle lies yonder.
I twirl toward the steelworks and toxic fumes.
A crack addict princess trades me red
dancing shoes for the snared rat and I cha cha
toward the source of my burning wanderlust.
I splutter through the town's noxious lungs
and chugalug gulps of sulphur like tapioca.
Betwixt the witching hour and dawn's first blush,
I am anointed amid sticky tarred feet
and the smutrous faith of delusional workers.
Lamfhada beacons like a Lighthouse at sea.
Her light glances across the monolith of my hiraeth.
I rest against the pillar wilting like an autumn daisy.
Spent, I brush away the shavings and kiss the relic.
Tarnished and jaded, I haul the rock home,
my floral moisture imprinting itself like street art.
Halfway there, my mind plays out like an old LP.
I solidfy and become a mysterious stone wraith
on the village outskirts.
©
as if I have defected from
yestertime like a weary lang syne.
Chanting toe taps reverberate
as I lift my layered skirts and p**s.
I threw back an urn of café au lait,
and let a cigarette burn itself out
till thoughts of you ignited my mind.
Now it bolts, veering across the road,
kicking rubbish bins down graffitied alleyways
of loathsome existences.
It frolics and cavorts past Banksy,
paints a Groucho moustache and
lunges toward oncoming traffic.
I magically spin like a whirling dervish,
delighting in the scent of burning rubber.
Caffeine sweat beads trickle down my neck.
The gelid air muffles every psalm
of such zealous doxology.
Gasp at my quest to discover Stengehone.
A comic rat with a truncheon approaches.
Steady now. The curtained wall is where you
will find it bye the bye.
Pierced by my stiletto it remains still.
There vermin! My pinnacle lies yonder.
I twirl toward the steelworks and toxic fumes.
A crack addict princess trades me red
dancing shoes for the snared rat and I cha cha
toward the source of my burning wanderlust.
I splutter through the town's noxious lungs
and chugalug gulps of sulphur like tapioca.
Betwixt the witching hour and dawn's first blush,
I am anointed amid sticky tarred feet
and the smutrous faith of delusional workers.
Lamfhada beacons like a Lighthouse at sea.
Her light glances across the monolith of my hiraeth.
I rest against the pillar wilting like an autumn daisy.
Spent, I brush away the shavings and kiss the relic.
Tarnished and jaded, I haul the rock home,
my floral moisture imprinting itself like street art.
Halfway there, my mind plays out like an old LP.
I solidfy and become a mysterious stone wraith
on the village outskirts.
©