Wandering wiseless on some smooth
indecent steep and sandy dune
he wondered if those grainly rumours
could be true that he should stand
astonished, still, in front of only unly you
who’s not (viz. yet) been fully met on this
unset trajectory of pain and pleasure ride.
He waits, just as he’s done for thousands
more besides this molten lava year
(if time indeed exists outside this sphere)
as fragment bits of ideas hurtled down
through treacle air around his cadence.
The boy (disguised incizely as a man)
unzipped the trousers of his dreams
while making footprints nakedsomely
on the beach, wondering still if steam
and fire were out of reach; and hopes
of follow filled his scrunchled heart while
looking over-shoulder shysome glances
(though he knew the dancely oftenness of
worthless folly’s frown within the open
confines of his lebensraum) he marvelled
at the accuracy of the timepiece worn on
Neptune’s arm (and Davy’s locker loomed).
Next thing, Chiron streamed across the sky:
a clothesfree comet streaking brazenly
as if it was a bearded rugby fan’s imposture
on the pitch (policeman puts his helmet
on the comet’s crotch) instead of wounded
healer witching its effect on me selectively.
Objectively, is first person best or third?
No one knows the answer; but the second
makes a fevered stab — pronouncing them
as man and wife, while Chiron says its tail’s
the twin-flame of the boy inscribed above
asserting that the rumours were of love.
© Alan Morrison, 2014