Poetry pension.




The breeze of happiness and the waterfall of our desire,
were calling as the poetess dealt a new hand to the preacher,
her colours streamed out and the breeze was warming to touch her,
the bush laughing in the light of its fire.

Back in the citadel hiding and waiting for the world to stop turning,
playing saxophone alone in the school yard,
waiting just waiting for that one card,
the fool blinded by reason and the butter churning.

Watching you come down off acid,
swimming in the vitamin C sea,
forget the colours and come and lie with me,
said she feeling all warm and placid.

In a house with no windows and a door with no lock,
reading poetry to a blind man who touches your second sight,
with infinity and the immortal light.

20 Benson and have you got any big skins in the all night grocer shop?



As the boy goes flippity flop
the fish go hippity hop,
and have they got any big skins in the all night grocer shop?

~