Bushland

A long ago, during warm midsummer-nights glow worms reminded me That constellations in the sky were not the only bright specks, I’d run my life checks Irregular but stern As if I were a dying drifter Who throws rocks left and right Of the long railway of life As if marching uphill rugged Brumby bushland For the last stand To defend not only the fragile Earth’s crust One providentially stands on But also to withstand the tastiness of madness The present provides in filled up Phoenician stone vases That were resting on the bottom of the sea Until the lungs of young divers Brought them back to the surface Right into the nexus of our lives Like a gong of a cosmic time system With the purpose of timing heart beats Of the living, And the decay process of the dead. Aesthetically the battle might have been pleasing In the realm of morbidly catatonic reality In the end, it turned out to be Just a slice of the vintage Hermelin Often served in the Central Bohemia Where big breasted waitresses know very little But compensate with the Karamoazovian smiles, so well. Terra firma, I stand on, I battle on.