VILIFYVILLANELLE We make an art of common things, little changed from Yeats' deep darkly inside, so can there be a common song we sing? Concoct the coat which provides wicked spin, hold me to the truth and keep feet in the fire; we make an art of common things. The alt of your enemy asks for embracing greater minds than ours have given logic, so can there be a common song we sing? A bullet-proof union still registering from Spanish Town to Oldham to wilder High Wycombe. We make an art of common things. Mrs. Groce and Mr. Blakelock both in our grieving, an eye for a high and we all go blind, so can there be a common song we sing? Three-fingered salutes in congregating the collected grievances with mercy as might. We make an art, an uncommonly rare thing, so will the song of the commoners be arresting?
My local post office was besieged yesterday. I shirked the queue to skirt the mask-less, living chins attack. Every molecule might be blame-free in its shop-worn simulacra, (seeped in from a loud one's Meeja Stud. homework - aargh) Nothing's no bother when bothered most the time, but I don't fool easy: dealers of gruff guff, say, or gran's skimped covers (unfit for emboldened street wine quaffers even) two examples of risk. I ignore youth's slave talk but mentally in bits, (and still without a stamp)
Dusted flats will be auctioned
off in years when green leaves
are news, not loss.
Ken opulence will bloom
to cheers with skedaddled
brown faces still
fearing the view.
Bridges drawn and tightened
belts, a monophony
fools. Colour schemes
are always brokered:
over Trinidadian hue.
That paper does not scare
rather its un-ending size and scope
is my drug of magnitude.
There are no latitude lines
which prevent it from completion;
no end of the world for a pen to fall.
Instead the bottom-less depth of every tufty crater
is inviting and bawdy.
Fill me, dink me,
with the ink and acrylic you have.
That paper has high opinions of itself
– and some similar expectations –
but it cannot be ignored.
My grandad had an Ackbar head (not the toy, a reddened pate).
All of those years tending the greens endowed him with a porcine sheen.