Crumbless Comfort [poem]
There’s treacle in those cloudlike hills.
(Or so I then was told; experiencing
for myself how real estate is falsely sold!).
So in my usual curiositical state of mind
I climbed then found my feet fast stuck
in thick and sticky slime. It was a trap.
I should have known that from the
all-beforeful times I’ve walked along
this thickly blistered track [knives in my back]
exasperated lack of self-defence in front
or from behind and now in vitrospect
I find a cell (my little hell [five walls[)
and on the sloping floor some six-inch
sludgely mess to wrestle with
no featherbed to nestle in
but all around those haunting skulls
which sport that stupid grin while
snipers prime their firing pins
imaginary targets in their sights
imagining that’s how to set the world aright
(not realising first, before such change be made,
they need to set their hearts alight
although it’s true my own has less remaining
glowing embers in me now my feet within
solidifying syrup’s lonely unseptember wind).
The Naked Troubadour 