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from Rehab Walkabout

‘it’s the terror of knowing what this world is about.’

                                                               Queen, with David Bowie.


Watching, the body feels human, but the mind
won’t take a man’s world seriously
as Sunrise, brightly, from the summer
left over in the leaves, Autumn
has the bristle broom
sweeping Summer’s soft touch
through the chopped arch windows
where originally the pews
of the churcHab dining room sat.
This is of the hardest part to take
apart and spread out on the table
to marvel, and then to reassemble:
the sermon, and the sunlight,
the leaves, so promisingly lemon
green when I arrived, collecting browny
in the cat bowl in the door corner
of the Smokers’ patio, where some insist
a hedgehog is feed; none of these without me
have a meaning—Aning…that’s nothing, not even
Again. I’m up each dark beginning, before the withered serfs
have slept off the morass helium
of their medications: bristled and soft, they seem sunk
down with the burden of the sun upon their back,
I am lifted every dawn, and it’s only here
I brag about this—the sun, shining harder, better
colour than the power-save bulbs, these
slow starting, dubious twisty heavier,
more expensive, cold & difficult to dispose—
as the man behind these words, I reveal
a paranormal suspicious disposition,
justa regular serf; that’s all— of us, here
put Rehab, in a spinning come to rest
within this shed, this glory-box for the dead
god with the best funding men Fiat about in.
I don’t want to build a boat, or a Business,
sink a million into I.T. futures, or use The Secret
for the wealth. I’d like pure water on tap
in every house: Man’s world!, seriously,
it’s an anxious animal, you never know when
it will turn if you are not performing the basics
well enough. Through the bold silicon of this
new watchful dawn, under pressure hum the Queen
and Bowie song. Understanding has a long trellis
table, one for 13, or twenty odd converted
islander to fix their lifted floors, but our numbers
have diminished, we are failing in the courts,
we are groping gangbangers, loners, whore-boys,
glorious in sunshine, glamour-sack of star light,
is her body, in my person, I would kiss her in the shower,
with the water running over our two skins,
joined at the Addict till the water starts cooling.
Bodies: the watering Mirror’s faucet.




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