globe spins on . . . time for a beach-walk and smell that fresh, salty air . . . despite whatevr :)
not gonna go bitin' me elbows.





sub-entry : heron’s call

sparkle of dew on leaf-tips
trail of dead earthworms
flattened by the wheels . . . on wet tar
feel the veritable tremors of the heron’s call . . . echo
beseeching to the others

muted rumours of a vagrant’s death in hostile chill
against backdrop of giant stone-face
table-cloth long dissipated . . . by now
icicles hang with plaintive air in another realm
of land-locked drought
where obscenely-rich jetsetters sport their latest Pontiac or Porsche
subconsciously remember bonds of care
amidst tipsy tinkles of flibbertigibbets
a drink the cost of their kin’s weekly wages and
deign to pop with cordial air-kisses and leftover-humanity
to down-and-broke parents who offer freshly-steeped oolong to half-hearted ingrates

stepping aside the hangman’s hope
round that perilous bend
into that iconoclastic gut’s-trail as smeared revealings
whose juddering disciple turns out not a plagiarist
shows
he had seen the lofty bird take flight and burst to flame
before their latent eyes

dismay can well hold hands with anticipated pitch  
yet leather-strapped feet trudge on
as not only eyes, but meagre spool rolls on . . . closer . . . closer . . . closer
every moment framed by minded pellucidity

hands in ill-assorted gloves . . . no matter
they fit
all fine and fitting wholly . . . within that heron’s call

it all fits somehow . . . in the trans-coloured emblem of a winded prism                            
wǒ ài nǐ





http://m.youtube.com/#/watch?v=_2TGkBf7vMQ&desktop;_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D_2TGkBf7vMQ