#amwriting #poem #poetry With Knobs On

With Knobs On

How nice it must be to paint, to squiggle
a bit of colour in the corner and not
need to know it vetch or parsley, just green,
enough to provoke the eye to say, 'yes
that looks like that.' And move on. I hear you.
Not another poem about death or ideas.
Mawkish adolescent pointing at skies,
poking deities, wondering if fingers touch
with divine fire when illuminating
the purchase of this small necessity
or coincidental half remembered barn.
What punned rhymes we do weave when
a broad-brushed tree would do as well
to fit the theme, of cantering to stretch
the lines to match Auden's Limestone in length.
Lord give me strength, and let not the child die.
As we hear the lark sing against the bricks
where once a meadow grew, perhaps you do,
perhaps, almost cry, and consider why
I'm still not courting death. Nor clinging to
some hip new cant of tagging or coffee,
that gets the virgins wet. Some have cunts, and some
have caves, and I have fags and booze
and when I wake up in that disappointment
of failing to paint the scene I saw, I could bore
at the petite slight, or say fuck it. Count
the lines....
No Auden's longer.