mottor: „fountains are drying by habitude” – Sixtus Aquarius

in the common acception
in the heart of small capacity of aunt Haby
there are still surviving reserves

and I quote:  
“what poetry mister Gee?
dreams and illusions which go off on one
to humbug us for good”  

aunt Haby sticks her hand
illustratively in the ground and says man
I know for a fact:
what’s in my hand
is no ‘green planes on the wall’!  

Yet
the thing is
that there is no way of knowing
how much poetry is there in the ground
at World's End  

so the Poeth-dog is coming it sniffs
her demonstrative hand
and then the beast raises its foot
  
some ms Habies are even stroking him
on this matter
arguing that it’s ordinary but they know better

for most often is driven away
from heaven
and everything is reduced to a few solemn
and sexymenthal cry-barkings
  
this is where I come in
friendly like a racing horse
a flyer swimmin’ on the ground
and aunt Haby jumps on me
she just found out I’m transporting poems
internally and internationally
and reality is that o-kaaay
what can I say?
  
aunt Haby is sad
her hand hurts like hell
I walk airborne underground like the gadfly
I save her urgently to the worlds end
right there where the land is resurrecting us
after the glaciations
  
where the entire world is wrenching in tears
of laughter