I will heave into the hands of hope,
spitting from blood-thick mouthfuls
– brimming with the ecstasy
of once again having bitten off
much more than I can chew.
I will dislocate into each appetite,
thriving headlong towards the outrageous fuchsia
of some explicit garden,
doomed to grow like a snake eating an antelope.
I will wake up beside the astonishment of dawn,
wild enough to taste its crisp dew
beading along the quiet rectitude
of my internal Attenborough commentary.
But
… there is no cure for all this cogitation.
There is no peak to a Waitākere sunset.
There is no one, just the cat atop a throne.
But
o, there is is gospel in my stocking’s ladder to havoc.
There is a song of Gods shuddering into electric nerves of nature.
There is every chance of rain, and I am dancing for the deluge.
Gravid with prospect, the industrial smudge of sky
will collapse in on itself and begin to fall.
Corrupt with purpose, the neighbours
will growl by on their ouroboros-bites of tyre,
hunched in leather-clad motorcycle squat
like fat iguanas.
You will walk into me through rolling credits of heritage,
and I will turn everything to poetry.
Love this but, as mentioned, you saved the two best lines for last.
Sumptuous.
How splendid, every line blasting out like orchestral brass!
A great crashing down at sunset. Your flag flies up there on the ridge, Sommer.
This is quite the compliment, Peter. Especially coming from a poet of your aptitude. I hope to get my standard flying up there on the head of the pin on the top of the mountain.
where the ladder ends, the havoc stored in this location, the shuddering rain, dancing with wet legs..am as a sparrow in these intriguing language puddles
That’s one heck of a response, thank you!!!! I am glad you felt the deluge too.
Thanks Sommer! I love the last two lines especially. Your own mini feature film with a great narrator.
Haha, thank you, Emjay, for taking the time to read and make such a thoughtful comment.