within enfolded cliches of stars and sky
cloudless rain gathers. Our eyes adjust
in focus again, to see nothing of the sun.
Trees blaze dark fire, fanned in whisps
whispered low.
....
the weather has not come
it is changed
a white greyness of mind
still hungover from a surfeit of whiskey
and wine
only in the tone does shape form
in subtle jags
of barely cloud and barley
barely what?
The sky makes no promise
if there is no God.
....
words say rather less that reputation
...
it's me, the lady who was sneezing
on your answer phone
...
click click click
the masked bandit shoots at the bus stop
can you spare fifty pence
accosts the chancer
the curving carved boar lane
runs away
hemmed by gemmed building on the right
reflected by the glass and steel of the middle
confection
ceiling echo and repeat
bright lit rush repeats
spiraling upwards and away
the escalated lines rise toward
to the domed tessellation of the roof
a station of commerce
without destination
red brick
grey stone
biege concrete adobe
....
besides the fob watched square set grandeur
of the town hall, stands his civic wife
dressed in french style
botoxed bustled by the henry moore
the rather slim queen anne
ornate of decolage, looks away
from the chink and rattle
of the cafe.
Gordon is gone
Burns, Scott and Dante look down
Goethe has been defaced
Welcome to the harem
the mosiac of everything
where still the moon and stars
stays blackened by the ghosts of gas lamps
....
the women liked a woman with a gut
victory on the war memorial
is interestingly posed
between releasing the dove
and sizing it up for lunch
while the corseted George
rather half-heartedly pokes at the dragon
while bleeding green
on the patriotic message
....
note - conversation about gordon, and gallery closed for roof repairs
queen anne pope poem, british art exhibition bring house down
EU money and feminist art thingy
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