on a day such as this,
one might be allowed to recline
into a royal "oneness" of pronouns -
beside the 'we' of an entourage:

if the air was like this
through the months of may
through to august -
coolly: calmly - a fixture
of briskness matched with one's
step...

i don't feel anything is mine...
i don't want a dynamic of
i this my that (from time to time):
if the air could remain this
cool... that not suffocating
air from the south could
ever find its way this far north...

we could have ourselves
something resembling
a Scandinavian bloom of emotions...
of course in the form of -esque
but never mind that:

to walk half a marathon
breaking the rhythm at circa half-way
having to find some sustenance...
what could be more ideal than
something ~75 pence worth of:
a Lidl stone-baked bun
and a packet of plums...

   i would jest at the chance to eat raw
dough like a Tibetan
but the raw fruit was...
what raw fruit always was:
a repose from fermentation...
i didn't wish for butter...
how oddly crazed it must have
appeared when rubbing a plum
against my tracksuit
a groove in the frame
one little eager ****** escaped
while the juggling was
over before it even began...

life felt Herr Norman Groofsy -
the same old parrots of
4pm on the streets attired in their
uniforms leaving
the minced meat factory /
ahem... the schools...
options of sweets and deep fried goods
while i slobbered like a squid
my plums pinched the bun
like a crow...

  it was sunny and as i passed
a row of daffodils
i couldn't but feel an impasse
at the burst of colour from the canvas
of hushed tones...
looking at them felt like
eating a bowl of strawberries
or a watermelon...

mind you: i was trying feed that other
bookish joy of coming into contact
with Linear B...
as if i somehow escaped a hiatus i succumbed
to having come into contact
with hangeul & katakana -
because... those mandarin logograms are
too many and i have to remember
all the spelling(s) tying and untying
of the words: readily lent...

ease this mind with enough
work of the legs -
break each spinster of a spider
at the tip of each of these fingers
with the eyes that look ahead and do not
look down at the keyboard...

spring and all its fashion has
come for the first time it would seem...
after a death
that... after a death and a Kandinsky
half an annum of toiling
with the "****" of living space
by the kitchen and bathroom
being refurbished... etc.
what a lost winter otherwise
spent rummaging in autumnal leaves
drunk in the night...

"we" write too much of very little...
with such concrete letters
reaching for abstract delights
to churn, charge... "we"...
         well, no... just me...
it could have been so much less than
what has already been arrived
at...
i just hope this example
of yet more chicken scratching
of an itch is brimming with
conversational overtones;

i'd die sooner than rhyme.