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My absent minded eye,
turned inwards on issues
of land and place,
did not at first see your dilemma

As the bully bird towered over
you hopped in looping rolls to flee

My eye caught up
and my fat presence unnerved the bird
who flew
and though I presented a different challenge
you bounded hedgeway
pausing in front of me momentarily

Our eyes met,
your black polished buttons
spelled your youth
and redundantly I greeted you

I stepped aside
to better let you escape
to tangle green safety
and I was alone again,
grasping at thoughts

The rest of my walk was elevated:
a wind struck tree,
dry guts splintered,
said something

A lithe muntjac
rose panic in me as it sought to pass,
it’s leaping form unusual,
but there and gone
before I knew

Green woodpecker laughed
at an unknown gag
and my brow furrowed

Toward the end
the complicated wren song,
a grammar babble way beyond,
underscored my lack of comprehension
all the way home
Today’s walk was crazy. Nature bellowed at me and I still can’t get the message.
I got bitten by a spider,
but this is England.

A certain arachnid
politeness is expected,
holding back on venom,
for example,
or moving at a predictable, parochial pace
and arranging eyes, legs and hairs
to not offend.

Hanging out in bedside sleeves
so an early morning stumble
is accompanied by slow burning
pin ******
leaving mild swelling and discomfort
is just not cricket.

Don’t get me started on
those chirruping buffoons.
The loud yawn of time
when you are held tight
is petrifying

An indifference to your captivity
as nature sees to normalcy
reveals our fleshy entropy
as nothing more than energy
to wax and wane

Beached pebbles
on an infinite shore
to pretend more is orange ignorance

There is solace, I guess
in acceptance,
but our primal, primate arrogance
prevents much
A metal nosed thought
wished for bark dreams
and grass forgetfulness
Let me sell you a fraction of truth
slanted to fit the froth-rage box
you live in

I’ll dress it in grave tones,
even implicate a scapegoat
so your priapic blast
has a focus

I’ll use fonts from Comic Sans
to Times New Roman
to ensure you bite the hook

When you look in our mirror
the hate will be palatable,

and as we gorge we’ll starve
Crawl across
Do what you willer
Stomach filler
My dad calls you
Cabbage killer
One of my earliest poems, but not as early as you might think!
The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours


For thought or effect,
the end’s the same

Played your hands in the game like always


The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

And where did the vitriol get you,
old man?

To a better place?
Where fat white women sing your praise?

While at home your carbon copies
bust their lips
when the home team loses?

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

You waiting for something?
Applause for working a nine to five
and allowing a fraction
of your take home to be spent on living,

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

I’ll stand over you now
As you stood over me
Instead of raining blows
I’ll let the misery of your truth
Catch in your chest
and fight for the cause

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours
Caveat: my dad is a wonderful, gentle, clever gentleman. I deal with many who are not.
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