07-22-2011, 09:27 AM
Lines Written Upon A Prophylactic Found In A Brixton Gutter
-- Matthew Caley
O useless balloon, supine, not the colour of dolor
but see-thru, salmon-pink, plugged with your load of ore
draped in a grating side by side
with imploded pizza-stars and half a crepe.
Squished jellfish of desire, trodden under the fly-boy trainers
of crack-dealers by the Taxi-rank and noodle-bar
—witness to a union of souls or alleyway tremble—
spermicidal eel, you know the perfidious trade-routes,
how the underground waters of the Effra
destabilise our feet, how pomegranate or melon-seeds
from the glass-arcades stuck in the tread of our boots
might spring up a rash of fruit trees in the inner city
sometime and knowing also how joy is brief [and rarely sanctioned by the Pontiff]
you dangle-drop, precariously, swim out for the open sea.
-- Matthew Caley
O useless balloon, supine, not the colour of dolor
but see-thru, salmon-pink, plugged with your load of ore
draped in a grating side by side
with imploded pizza-stars and half a crepe.
Squished jellfish of desire, trodden under the fly-boy trainers
of crack-dealers by the Taxi-rank and noodle-bar
—witness to a union of souls or alleyway tremble—
spermicidal eel, you know the perfidious trade-routes,
how the underground waters of the Effra
destabilise our feet, how pomegranate or melon-seeds
from the glass-arcades stuck in the tread of our boots
might spring up a rash of fruit trees in the inner city
sometime and knowing also how joy is brief [and rarely sanctioned by the Pontiff]
you dangle-drop, precariously, swim out for the open sea.
It could be worse