ideation

a hole in the heart -

a worm chasing the blood

downstream

down it goes,

   down, down the old town’s

                       rivers

the one-way shit-carrying

                          streets

to the caravan’s abandoned block.

you dream of holidays

away from   barbed wire

henchmen

and of where things don’t need

to flow through tubes and

                          veins

and front pages

to get to where they’re going.

                       no undertow,

                       flagged nothing,

no sinister thump of machine

   kicking you in the chest.

down the old town’s

                       rivers,

up over the walls

where half-eaten figs hang

steadily more soft,

and through windows open

                       or not -

they have forgotten

last year’s frost.

now down, over, and into the minds

of the dreamers:

                    quickly, quickly now,

        then seeping back, back

into the earth,

hiding the infiltrator, the dance,

that incursion of night

from the sun to set fury on

at dawn.

Filed under: Poetry