like the herring on my trouser cuff,
I can swim the two-step down to the corner stoop
and drowse there in the summer summer sun
with my eyes spinning in my head
those boogas lining up to sing their sweetly
how’s this go again?
this rummy tune?
I’ve forgotten you see
and my dreams have run together into a sticky malaprop
my words, my saucy words, my flimsy words
my barrier words are breaking open
breaking down, over-run by these eyes
bursting through the front door
ravishing the country maid and barreling
burbling and bursting out the back
the country’s not as tame as it used to be
could be, the ducks have come home to roost
and to strew their dirty longings everywhere
their filthy desires
their muckraking swill
maybe the two-step’s not such a good idea after all
I like the idea of memories being like cracked eggs, with the yolks running out. At least, that’s what this makes me think of.