In the wildlife and brambles
of swallowing reality
I am animated with my friends,
Silent in the face of my enemy.
This is the nature of me,
my jaundiced and lily-livered,
Blossoming weeds.

In the torrid heat of the garden
Plastic petals cushioned by a non-existent breeze
The expensive and perfect roses speak
In a high and thin voice:
“She doesn’t belong here!”
I maintain distance, observing quietly,
Drinking in supple thoughts
My type of nourishment.

How strange! While we all exist,
I realise I am mostly the only one
Alone in this thistle-thorn entangle--
Spikes on spikes--
And these roses are cruel,
They bite my stems,
They scythe through my stalks.
They make it sound
with their chorus of coy voices,
That I am strangling them,
with my unkempt leaves.

Nonetheless odd and daring
In the best sense of the word
I was a bore to the masses
Amidst the roses’ mellifluous clamour
which was static white noise
and superfluous torrential chastisement
But I’m safe in knowing
that their words will crumble to dirt one day
And that being “social”, was just an experiment.

I left the town
in search of a happier place.

I am twisting skywards
for brighter light each day.

Do not misunderstand that I am completely alone,
I am better outside the garden now
As a light globular lump on the open road
Thriving on even the forgotten and sighing wind.
Occasionally I come across another fellow being
I wouldn’t want to choke with my untamed growth,
And we find sweet comfort in unspoken words
Between two lost, closet souls.

I would invite them graciously
To my snug abodes of desert peace,
To tumble about carefree
With the gentle caress of warm currents
Finding solace in vastness and anonymity
When we ride freedom breezes through scorched skies.
As the sun dips and glows behind the last clouds on the horizon,
We’ll be roaming further still from the plastic perfect roses
We’ll be together in the knotted wild,
Tumbleweed friends, you and I.

There’s a funny tale read to children today
about a nonsense world found in the fields
on one manic hot morning
past a bubbling stream softly singing
at the place where a curious girl took her tumble
down a long hallway full of puzzles
and doors. If you’re sane, you wouldn’t be here
but here you are now, and it’s all so queer
how food enlarges your body to epic proportions
and critters, not of your typical garden variety,
don’t bother with “excuse me’s”,
“please’s” and “thank you’s”, but most of all
a strange sight to behold, a purple cat
on how to navigate this whimsical thicket
disappears with a trace, you see, of his wide grin of glee
so let us now stroll through the wood, to the Mad Hatter’s
where a tea party goes on forever and ever
and he hasn’t the slightest idea of the answers
to his many riddles.
In the distance rose trees painted red are growing,
while the Queen of Hearts is growing red
with hot rage at her subjects
in the midst of the oddest croquet game
with hedgehogs and flamingos as the ***** and mallets.
Now you could choose to stay here, or try to depart,
I grant you this place’s not for the faint of heart
But once you leave you’ll think about it
the absurdity has made you smile.
You’ll stand again
in the fields of another manic hot morning
hoping to God that White Rabbit will again be coming
late, late, for his very important date,
otherwise the thought of it fills you with dread,
because outside the fairytale books which you once loved and read,

a Wonderland must exist!