I thought me of a thought which thought
of yet another thought which flew,
disarticulate, each one scattering
and inchoate - so nothing new.
And when white clouds were in my mind
and pink clouds too, nail-varnish-ed
I caught a little wet-nosed snout
just like old Truffles, or Salty Ted.
But when I went to write it down
something stuttered in my head
something flashed there like a light
that twinkled green and gold and red.
It had become another poem
another one upon the last
that flitted from my mind and
scrawled itself upon the paper fast.
A gold-green critter it seemed then
with eyes of yellow and of red
just like the peepers which stare out from
poor dead Truffles or Salty Ted.
Though I get old from blades of time
which shave my days with razor head
and depilations of the mind -
years' wax rips neurons from their bed -
I shall pursue my golden thoughts,
as inchoate as they may be
and catch their hands and hug their shells
and invite them back to tea.
And press their hands and chatter blithe
of all that they and I have done
to eat all olive asteroids
and suck the lemons of the sun.
YOU ARE READING
Potatoes
PoetryHot, Sweet, Saucy, Spicy - always filling/fattening. Donder - vb. To blunder about aimlessly, not knowing what the feck one is at.
