The hotels fell
into the gluey blue lagoons
of the sky,
Granddad hanging on by his trowel.
What else had Pythagoras imagined?
Rook with an apprentice?
Crow with a bar?
Locusts with dessert?
At the end of time again,
mad dogs, slippery lions
and ruminating ravens
face each other across the square
at awkward angles,
working out the distance, the time
scissors, paper, stone
to who will be at dinner
and who will be all bone?
The hotels are full
of bricklayers’ sores
and moistened mittens
on midnight velvet,
paste gems, costume jewellery,
the status quo from granny’s attic.
And via a whistle in the lift,
inside the caretaker’s hut
Look!
A word
on paper
hanging from a hook!
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This is the first poem I have written for over eighteen months - at 3am one cold morning last week.
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