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Swords And Roses
By Paul Cameron Brown
Some lives have themes.
Goldfish that stubbornly die;
compatability only with distant lovers
- flowers (but no sweet-breads)
that wilt to the touch.
Waiting. Charcoal-grey cat
agreeably on a green linoleum table
with light basking in....
a tad playful,
paws up,
(classic boxer stance)
but no one notices.
Others oblique in their transparency,
are unmindful of even the empty closet
and greeting cards that smile hello.
In the dark
this room shimmers below
life-raft status;
chairs are buoys
bobbing under waves
of congealed fright.
In the morning
the first pigeons
rifle over rooftops,
mad flutterings like your eyes
stabbing gables looking curiously
like your heart.
A tree bandaged in wood
manages a feeble handshake
with sky cajoling winter.
But it is the moon,
large and eerie,
a golden earring
mindful of a Chinese panda
that plies its trade.
Mandarin-like, a snout
so cloud-entrenched
soft night barely resembles
willow and bamboo shoots
the universe left to feed her.
Nuggets or nougats?
Should I call you "opaque",
use coke-bottle glass as a
symbol of light-headedness, transparency?
Keen vision?
Could it be more is known of outer space
than your mind
or that leaves,
frosted with cold,
are conducting interviews
maliciously within the park fold?
Rather (and this is so circumspect)
no one owes anyone
in the brisk coinage and trade
that breeds human waste ...
So drivel passes as conversation,
a handshake for real investment.
A lot in common, the wrong dreams.
Pretty awareness, the desolate pennies
stumble from our hands.
More substance, really,
in the rustle of a silk dress
or static electricity
that pops over orb-sized breasts.
Hide and seek
peek a boo,
you don't need me
I don't need you.
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