15 October 2016

                                peeling skin  (a pith take)

                                        what should i do

                              when manuscript is not enough


                                   the tapping of a keyboard
                                        trepans my skull

                                         i need a change

                                   more thinking less inking

                                i had the above conversation with myself
                         in the few grey hours between july dusk and dawn
                                                not a good move
                                   smacks of onanism or ventriloquism
                                             something like that
                               ‘cept i can’t sit on my own knee
                                        with my hand up my ass
                                 making one of my mouths say gottle o’ geer

                                            i sat there in the limbolight
                                        watching a re-run of karen sisco
                                (and you thought prometheus had it bad)

                                                      the idea hit
                                       so simple  -  so all encompassing

                                         i would continue to write
                                                     eschew paper
                                        ( no it’s not the same as tissue paper
                             pay attention will ya  -  i’m pouring my heart out here)

                                             i decide to write only on
                                                 fruit and vegetables
                                                   man what a gas
                                          i hadn’t been so excited since
                                                    that night when …..

                      hey  -  let’s just say i’ve not been that excited for a while ok

                                      i went out to the kitchen and found a lemon
                                        (leftover supplies from a g & t evening)
                                   dipped a cocktail stick in some colouring
                                                         i was away
                                                     a pointillist haiku

                                                          got the modelling knife
                                             etched an ode in the skin of a potato

                                                             beamed myself around the world
                                                                       lit a beach fire
                                                                heating up a metal rod
                                                       burned my words on a coconut shell

                                      travelled on

                               used my thumb nail
                                          to write
                                   i am what i am
                                      (on a yam)

                                                             sat in the hot sun
                                                               with the help of my specs
                                                             focused my mind
                                                   seared a sonnet on a satsuma

                                                         never been so happy

                                                         each one different

                                                      a lifetime to find ‘em all

              (sure there was a little melon cauli in there but let that stay silent)

                                                   a poem on a pomegranate
                                                         (so many seeds)

                                              a little lyric love  -  some sweet corn

                                     the plums the dates the firm courgettes
                                                       cucumbers bananas
                        (ok plantains if you’re reading-in autobiographical symbolism)

                                           how many vegetables are there
                                                  (leaving aside politicians)

                                              the world was full of juicy promise
                                                   ways to write upon it
                                                natural colours of course

                                  i stole a micro-laser from a mad scientist in alaska
                                                      used it to write an epic ballad
                                                               on a soybean

                                               sliced up a turnip
                                         fingerbrushed turmeric losslines
                                             across the damp pages
                           watched only by the silhouette of a bemused scarecrow

                                                              it went on for years
                                                      kick-starting hardtail hogs
                                     keeping ahead of my own dustcloud in tired pickups

                                                                scribing words
                                       everywhere from rain-forests to airport lounges

                                                             i was so high
                                                 i scratched my ass on everest
                                                       life would last forever


                                                               of course

                                                   the far-off barking of a dog
                                                     some intrusive sadness
                                                           brought me back
                                                            sorry twilight

                                                   i had made the journey

                                          just one more poem left to write

                                                     i took a rusty flooring nail
                                                 in the crisp and pungent flesh
                                                          a spanish onion
                                                     i carved my final work

                                                  read it and weep



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