A Mother, Maybe 25.
Child, Maybe 3.
He Swings On Municipal
Ground,
As She Pulls And Pushes
And Blows Bubbles
(A Fairy Liquid Treat)
In The Grey Glenrothes Glaur.

Spheres Of Prismatic Sky
Drift Homeward,
As He Lifts His Wee Hams,
Up, Up…

The Cave Is Moist,
Fecund, And,
Outside The Volunteer Arms,
The Results Play.

Smears Of Brown, Canine,
Rest With Beer-
Stains On ‘society’,
And Are Washed
To The Firth By
Tedious Torrents,
As Bus-Catching Catatonics,
Amid Gamp-Phalanxes,
Wait
For Buses.

You Lie On Your Back,
A Bundling Of Bones, Girdled In
Goose, And Morphia’s
Nirvana.

Your Head Stands Out
From Eyes
Dragonfly-Sapphire, Your
Pelt Gossamer-Racked By The Inquisitions Of
Aeons.
Your Ears Are
Exposed To The Spectral Susurrations
Of Long- Dead Lovers,
Who Will Whisper Into Your Head For Ever.

Funny How We Are Each
Ghosts Of The Future,
Our Histories
Before Us.

Curious, No? , How We Are
All
The Spawn Of
Lust,
One Way
Or Another.