I have a buttercup in my hand that I would like to place
under your chin
golden her hair turned
but I wanted to see what your chin looked like
golden her heart turned
and so I stopped
I stop.

And then walk(ed) out and sit (sat) by a river that flows as it always has, as I hope that it will till tomorrow,
but I have an itch in my soul, and I know what it is,
it's you,
you big fat white ewe,
-has he gone a little cra-zee
I mean has he (whisper whisper), lost the plot?
You, who used to be so innocent-
Ha! You played that facade well,
but now you have shrivelled,
like a scab that life and others are about to flick off,
scratch away until you are nothing but a collection of atoms,
and you thought yourself so beautiful-
(and yet at times so unsure)- or should that be un-pure?

But listen my friend; there are times, moon times and sun times, when things happen softly at times,
Apollo will wink at you,
Bacchus will dance and the lovebirds might even purr,
but listen my friend,
bring that multi-pierced ear to this small part of sodden earth
where below the earthworm wiggles,
come closer, now do you see this hand
that touches the sun whilst the other goes below to that wriggling worm, (so close to where Hades sleeps and snores),
and I’ll acquiesce, if you profess that it means everything.

But, remember, remember, matter matter's less than you think, matters less, because we are all matter-less,
Remember remember, memento moris,
No! remember life,
do you not hear the apes screaming as you focus on
the scrawling pen, whilst the sage sits serenely smiling sedately as his soul slumbers so silently?

Words, so wildly inefficient, unable to paint the picture
that the soul remembers. Yet... rip of your clothes and come run naked with me
through valley's that no stiletto heel has pierced,
where the weaponry of the ball gown, the trainers, and the burka's,
where the machine guns of the kimono’s, the medals and all those paper illustrated certificates that flutter behind bloated lacquered frames,
where the tanks of the briefcase, the bow ties and the Birkenstocks and the flowing Rapunzel skirts have all been disarmed.

Like the depleted masticated soul of the man who reclines every day at half past three pm to am on a sofa he bought from Ikea
like the Jivaro and their war booty,
like the plodding scientist,
and the orgasmic shy tantric lover,
like the “premier” and his hemmed in crème de la crème,
(now don’t be spiteful-mummy says it simply doesn’t suit).
Oh forgive me, forgive me, I went on a little too much,
heads bob
up
and
down,
down
and
up
and
down,
but oh look! Columbus is sailing out and "discoveries" are being made.
Pleasee lean closer my saggy-cheeked xenophobic friend,
because like Columbus, you are Columbus, because Columbus he sails in us all.