Sunday, 3 March 2013


Babble brook baby in blue
Dribbled drabs of dying due

We crossed our arms and waited
Staring into each other’s stoned gazes
We wanted an answer
We got a question.

Lying leeching loving of lives
Freezing fingers of fleeting fear

My folly was my own
We saw it coming but were slow
To get out of the way
The truck was running down the hill
A phallus on wheels
Painted red
With a bell that rang.

Tickling teasing of talking tongues
Sonorous snarling of succulent songs

We held hands but were not in love
We made words that made no sense
But offered their own comfort
In a lugubrious way, running
Like candle wax, soft, yielding
That knave they never caught—
The queen was still a virgin.

Slowly sinking the sun goes down
Into the ocean
To think that life has any meaning other than death
Am I a fool
Or do fools think of nothing more than satisfying
Giving themselves
To the flow of ebb

A single beating heart.