Home » Poems » Lady Labyrinth » Ten Years, Somewhere In Their Lost Neighbourhood

Ten Years, Somewhere In Their Lost Neighbourhood

“Ten Years, Somewhere in their Lost Neighbourhood” Of course, he said, like a god, there is no course, one must simply go with the flow the penumbra stands waivering its existence, a kind of deactivation, fuzzy borderline hanging, backing the art of deleting, but hovering, still, holding off the finger, of the soul, hovered for a while over that button it was how shall we say it, perspicacious persiflage, cameoflage was a fan gone all flim flam tinkering the tulip’s tunes tintabulation conjured banjoes as duelling runes gone all cool Scandinavean ramboed inside the native poet’s artichoke heart marinated in skewered intentions and decked with love-me-love-me-not's, purile daisies, magenta hibiscus, frangipanis behind the ears, clitoria blue pea, cupids bow and golden trumpets listening for the poetic jungle and its clicking slippery disco-lit geckos arriving with treasures, their never ending freshwater pearls juggling feelings on the outside so incorrigibly bold inside a contained tornado clasping a red shoe heart going gangbuster yellow brick road with horny back toads like rambles of loose arab rabbles who never close their doors the boxes like pantoum palinode steppe tent doors flapping with the breeze, they come and go, the open comments pitched darkly p.c. incorrectable stet reverse that inequity delivers lavendar velleity soothing loquacious romantic paramours along the wide open dusky plains of throats, Man Ray lips full of moist potential pressing the burning kisses of promises against the ardent receiver's better judgement, the wantons are branded with the fated destiny of velvety dark deep whispers fluttering along the outside of the breastplate ribs raised like a lion's leopard breathing in time with the breath of others a massed congregation of serial lovers cloaked in Arden dew sensually slipping along each other's words honeyed with amor purr like cheshire cats, eyes hooded like hungry black monks, deprived, depraved the heart, a veiled nun accepting the heat of sunshine on naked skin, gone all incorrect on the perimeter in an habitual habitat of unified longings, wishes and blunt injustices, overgrown with regret and longing, wild jasmine, bush rose, kangaroo paw, hearing the wanton call of distinguished wolves like packs of wild dingoes circling their Lawrence Tree, shouting out bravo! bravo! brava bravo! bella bellissimo! like Puglia heels wearing thin the mafiosa line, shed their masks and become tall taunting poppies on walkabout like a naked black boy overcome with the strangeness of the exotic lily-of-the-valley misplaced amidst beautiful water weeds luxuriating in their tears, Norman Lindsay paints the lines along the shoreline of a waist, deeply wanton and overgrown in emerald climbing ivy nude legs like pale blushing albino serpents wrapped around deep purple lantana, the submerged crocodili blue lotus all wild gone way off centre, gone way out bush where the eucalyptus and tall grass burn offs rip along the smudged margins waiting for the reasons to smoke out the cane field into different portions, positions of false and true purpose, the voyeur watches on, and each day I visit the quincunx inhaling the burnt sugar of solidarity between the lines and tall story buildings of others, on fire, their aromatic words like intoxicating toffee a caramel sucked and chewed on, pulled from the mouth again and placed in the middle of the table with the 500 kitty, the planchette played, the elixir séance coffee of kindred souls spiritedly ingested for the second coming and going of poetic seasons, seeks accountability for what in this life is pure and not irrevocably stolen, I somehow reason, below the undertow of it all, that the truth stands still, firm and irreversable; if one could take the time to learn this strange new language one might just survive the baptism by fire inside the mind. ten years taken, gone, never to be reclaimed. brings home memories 1 year before 10 years ‘71 vintage an empty chair a conversation a wall heights, great heights and years marked, the moveable seasons measured and understood the anchor let go the boat does not wait long it never waits long the submerged emerges from the mud of it all, going with the flow hanging onto the stern pulling itself with great effort up to bow; not so much an empty chair the conversation for intended, well and truly understood sitting on a lily pad home somewhere in their lost neighbourhood (LadyLabyrinth / 2023)