AN ENDING FRAG

& afterwards

we

slog

hollow boned
up
the 

hill
to the witches condo

where we had hung up our coats

& our gone pets 

are 

darting & glitching

in 

the  

periphery fuzz & snow

of 

the 

early gloom of valley dusk

HIGH STREET POP - CEMENT SERENGETI

high riding arses

on the concrete prairie

thick inked brows
on the block-pave plain

no coats
no coats
no pockets
no joke

hunting out 
a happy hour high

from metro.co.uk

COLD BABY DREAMS

       i dreamed 
   of a new years eve 
in a deep indigo forest

 me  ridgwell  a whole bunch of us writingslobs 

  unsettled and itching
  riding warm air updrafts 
into a rich 
        blue 
         cloudless night 

 drifting up almost close enough to the stars 
          to know 
      if theyre the worn holes in black velvet
  where the light 
      of a kind of lost heaven 
 filters thru 
  like a tease

we all have soft palm pod screens 
they roll open like vine leaves
     we share 
     haikus around 
     like wine

  or something similar to haikus - they were experimental 

          of course

           and 
  heavy on accurate punctuation

i struggled to finish mine
unable to find the right last line
     about the planets 
  being the dead used fossils 
    of the old gone gods

we found a baby up there

  a sky boy 

   he is 
like a magic boy we said
   he is 
like a superman boy we said

we all wrote it all down in our vine leaves
   heavy on accurate punctuation
   and we took turns 
  to keep him warm 
    inside our coats 
      as we flew him down 
        to get a foil blanket
          from 
          the 
  st johns ambulance team
     parked 
     by 
     the 
   tea and scone tent

in the clearing is a wedding
crowded and cramped and crazy
in the deep indigo forest night

someone has done something bad there
we felt the friction of it singe the air

 and all the trees outside the arguments
  are gold like cake decorations
 and the mad seagreen monsters
     with kind donkey eyes 
        are 
 lined up on wooden benches
    patiently waiting a turn
    at something
  we cant yet see

and us writingslobs are sky bound again
aiming for the sky holes again

     vainglorious 
   like a race in myth

pic from bolgernow.com