i too find the lack of colour in the winter bouquet
demeaning, but with so much colour missing,
i find the remains of colour
much approving, that the remains can be exfoliating,
sharpening on the smithy hoof
in arthur's sneeze for new years'
celebration,
and too the sunlight accompanied
with beer for the encore of uninhibited laughter
at the sorrow of hebrew tonguing
h                              &                             a
(turned witty that combination did,
or slapstick the donkey with mel brooks’
gags shaming adolf chaplin; for care of a freudian couch),
as not akin to knitting laughter
but simply with index codices make
vectors and arrows of fingers turned into eyes...
with beer the encore until resolved serious
with a track-list of post hippy reflection:
beginning with 21st schizoid man (+ mirrors),
through i talk to the wind, epitaph
(+ march of no reason) and tomorrow and tomorrow,
moonchild (+ the dream and the illusion);
and ending with the court of the crimson king
(+ return of the fire witch, the dance of the puppets).
i once made a tape, odd thing in the 21st century
to make tapes for other people with a chance
personal reunion, as based on the novel high
fidelity by nick hornby...
but i did and she said... i walked at 5am through
oxford street emptied by an apocalypse, and the song
epitaph resonated like birdsong.