sun

the music on the radio is sounding false again,

punk

seems more ridiculous the further time drifts

from 1977.

bring on death, the flower, and flour.

a lonely man surround by friends.

and a cat,

dog,

insects,

birds in the trees in the backyard.

people say they love the sun

but

science tells us the sun will eventually grow bored

and inhale us,

like a hippopotamus breathes in a fly

when it yawns,

or a supermodel sucking on a cigarette with those dead

‘I am beautiful’ eyes.

garden dance

as bombs fall down

on

Syria,

the mosquito screen

on

the front door

shakes in the hot north wind.

the garden outside is shaking.

kind of dancing in the wind

with

branches and fronds for arms and legs.

I hear the crash of a pot plant onto the slate

and

go out, investigate.

these darkened hills

at night the twisted branches of my oak tree

still reach for

a light which is not there;

a possum jumps from it

onto the shed,

a noise so loud it stirs a flock of sleeping cockatoos

down the valley

by the track.

no moon tonight,

and no happiness.