I sit and rest beneath the ripening figs,
their pregnant bulges swelling on the tree;
a heavy yoke deforming laden twigs.

In nearby streets a man is walking, he
observes me without line of sight. I’m known
below those purple fruit, in Galilee.

He speaks my life, and secrets I alone
should know; the silent whispers of my heart.
He understands my very blood and bone.

The orchard's dripping fragrance, sweet and ****,
might draw me from the living words he gives.
I measure what’s the cost if I depart
for lighter yokes: reform my bending sprigs
and set out from beneath the ripening figs.

McKenzie sat, the feral cat
a ginger tom, a ***** brat,
he’s on the slab, he's at the vet,
he's innocent of the threat;
as scalpel steel –prepares to lop
his precious assets – for the chop.

He smirks and thinks of bowls of cream.
An instrument now stops his dream
while measuring his body’s heat:
a gross insult to his seat
that turns his grin into a pout
as he pushes the probe out.

This wicked cat – who seems serene,
his outward visage  looks so clean
external dirt can never stick,
but succumbing to his lick
it passes through that moggy’s gut
and out of an unblemished ****.

The player fears the game is up
he sees the proffered poisoned cup,
now he's exposed: the ***** rat.
Dies Irae for that cat –
the stoneless subject of our mirth –
as ball-less he departs the Earth.

On the white screen dance the stringed dots
Mind spilled codes of hieroglyphic thoughts
Slowly they emerge handholding lines
Not always yielding intended designs.
Something was brewing inside the head
Coaxing to weave and take it ahead
The drunken horses so wildly gallop
There is no leash to make them stop.
Nerves are taut and they won't relax
Till all is vented they reach the ******
It was thus fated the moment it was sown
What's to be grown could never be known.
As the fever wanes arrives the new child
It may be adored or it may be defiled
The canvas is washed clean as in the rain
Something is brewing to be vented again.

Thrum.
Undulating across the cyan, sea scented lagoon,
  I watch Venezia condense like an artist
  sketching grey lines in the mist.
Murano: thump, a deeper varum,
  static air fills with diesel vapour,
  smelling of engine, tasting of oil.
Thrum away.
My eyes wash the roofs and domes with terracotta,
  till I step into the canvas

The grey ghoul masks, tan mummy wraps,
    black witch's hats and corpse green Frankenstein faces
    haven't hit the bottom of the bin before
mince pies jockey for a place beside the hot-cross buns.
Halloween and Christmas are squeezed together
    tighter than a coin’s width.

Tinsel boy band advent calendars
    sell 24 chocolate milestones
    on the road to obesity.
Supermarkets offer a sanitised Christmas
    religion rinsed away
    like bacteria on a chlorine washed turkey.
They trade a childless nativity like
    pies without mince;
    sultan-less fruit cake;
    plum-less pudding;
an unstuffed winter holiday roast.

People wonder where our culture has gone:
      we sold it for a midden
      of conveniently packaged banality.