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Tuna On The Cob
Scented ember a moulted smoulder
Skied as crackling softness
Spied and felt thru a film of dexterity
Uncalibrated, solvent, translucid
Trance and dance
Street fleet, guttering inhabited by creased indoctrination
Yet to be ironed
Yet to be pressed and left on the stoop
Cornered like bluefin, fed, foddered and canned
'Til the ink runs dry
Dust, seen but not sawn
Settles on my pine needles
Green hue askew now turns to blue
Appointed to the disjointed and as hard edges glint
Drones trudge thru sludge to fund the mints
(I know these words are bare, and that this poetry is bleak but it's channelled from a source which I seek.
A clear blue nectarous swivelling blissmist.)
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