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As the steady state of molasses is a lie
and the speed at which we spin to stand
so the shortest distance btn
2 of yr blue-prints pinned inside a red balloon
inflating rimwards with my guestimates -

show me a plank of fine pirana pine
planned to nanometric perfection
and I'll show you a good time
showered with a million shavings
and a tooth-pick made for slipping in hair cracks.

So play me the black notes, mister,
you're missing all the best beats with your bones
of base abstraction, straight-jacketed out everything
but your mean meanings and bland beauty -

elegance may be the smooshest, cashmered, routed joints
but sorry, shop closed, signs out, no tickets here.
As good as enough, the 80% must ship it,
plug'n'play to a waltz by an almost-there quartet -
a fishbowl organ, a bread-bin fiddle and a washboard rythmn-ace.

running swift, swallow gladly
into each lanscape - woodland,
scrub, rock desert, so serif thrown off
the TEU left behind, swallowed
from bollard and twistlock swung drunkenly
into the DSSSL ringing standby for RTF or HTML
or the sitcom patio, next year's headlines,
some hombre slouching the wide open range.

I know you're moving west again,
the scouting parties are thumbing ALta Vista
for Victorian realtor, so best plates packed
stylesheets ready to translate. I shall
stumble on your tracks and curse and thankyou
equal measure. I sniff the wind and watch
birds wheel. I must refix the pen-nib, rebarb pointers.

I have spent happy times pitching tent,
making fire, dusting tracks, slowly stripping
syntactic sugar to be here, nothing but
bone semantics, some well-worn plates
leather bindings for the horses, tools
to fashion arms to pit at multi-engined giants.
They shall have no more, only twisted seeds.

There are occasions when I wish sans
not a chivying force, that weight would hold me
and the blue hills - but the flat horizon
is a long circuit I recall from blue -
a lariat flirting the run's irresistible arc.
At the water-hole, beneath the stars,
to the whisper of the dry wind, I wind
my birds up for all who will listen.
I wish them a flight of surprises.

The cypress elm spreads it's dark green bowers
across the lawn. Beneath it's dark warm heart
pheasants court, compete, complete pursuit. Oh my!
The black squirrel hangs by it's toes,
thumbs it's nose. Fissle material such are dreams
handled carefully by the quiet fantasists
shovelled into the furnace, ignited, fired,
often more Frankenfurter than Frankenstein
but once in a while, the eager blackbird
attacks the mirror, the bees come down the chimney,
we fizz and spark in a quiet obsessive way:
a little less mole-hill than wasps' nest,
more swallow dart and dragonfly pause
on the mock orange's tip - unsteady it seems -
than continuing to dilute the hours slowly;
yet, my lays are trammelled in the rare snow.
I wait here in the shadow of the brioche shrub
honing words for the darting breeze of a summer's day.

Sharp-shouldered bloke at the end
keeps elbowing people out the way -
n I've been waitin for an hour now -
tapping a tenner on the bar.
Him and his dusty shoulders
cleaner fish sucking flakes,
brickies clearing and plastering
the outer flying balustrades,
clumps of cliches at his feet.
Bugger. He's given me a clowns fucking
words and then minted coins for a Crimson Bucaneer
to thief gold, those bright red
double-deckers over Tower Bridge
to HP sauce, and a hospitality tent to boot.
You can hear them, fired by the sunrise:
drunken twist of paper dancers
to the chapatis spin around the rim
beneath bloody skies.
Divest the chattels of yr past,
break the debentures of yr future.
Burning Shakespeare will not be enough.

Forensics are here for you
labelling everything in their path,
weaponisation of sealable plastic bags.
Just what were you doing that moonlight night?
Stray radio voices from France Inter emerge
the cat's miaow. Mpegs scattered across soft landings.
I suppose you could expose a few dodgy workmen
on the scam, a quick buck. The gain? Some purity,
I suppose, styro-foam pleasures after the money-men from Sue, Grabbit and Run
have stripped Bugs of any quirks but his signature
"what's up Doc?" What's up? A short walk up the stairs
to the tall scaffolding by the tall grinning shadows. Look down at your right-hand sleeve,
look closer, a thread trails an addendum with very small serif typeface.