The Conjurer
the conjurer
his fingers dive like seagulls
swooping in mid air
a voice half gravel
half creme caramel
soothes and goads
like granny with a rough cloth
he washes faces in life
strain the ears incredulity
with incantations
rough and unpoetic voices
speak through floating horns
companied by sea swells
pungent curses rain as fire
upon a gapemouthed audience
all invisible worlds
shunned for niceties sake
pass before reluctant eyes
as his truth is painted over
by mechanics still
the beguiled wait
for the next sign
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