By and | 1 August 2014

Coming back to their neck of the woods,
a shout was as good as a wolf and a basket

as full as a boot full of tarnished medallions

and useless keys, pugnacious as costume

on a moonlit patio, swilling prosecco

in the face of a woofer meltdown,
the Pixies Doolittle undermining

their security and ripping through

their smokescreen, they linked arms

and tumbled headfirst into the black

ink of their future depositions, laughing

like whales at their idiotic prospects,
reminiscing over the glory days

of their addictions; some strange

archaic pleasures, white drawings

on the fragile weatherbeaten wall,

hessian curtains with macramé tassels,
vases with cracks sewn together

with lines from the Old Testament

making them crazy: the lord raised up judges,

which delivered them out of the hand

of those that spoiled them, and left

them stranded on the banks of their own

satisfaction. Really, their pleasures

were of the most fleeting kind, so
they faced up and said, ‘damned

if we do, damned if we don’t’,
and didn’t do anything to correct,

construct, console, constrain or

contribute to the future prosperity

of their grand project, though they

played out their ebullient narratives,
and folded up their origami verses,

took to the trombone and piano
with gusto, and uttered a rousing

chorus to all and sundry.
the next day, they were arrested

in their development towards spiritual

affirmation, a transparency attractive

in its embrace of optimism’s anodyne argot

though their youth lay dead as springtime

it was late in the hour of burning reason

and enlightenment overkill, thus panhandled

they stepped out of the limelight

and took up Pascal programming 

insisting it was neither an imperative 

nor blast from the past, always slinking
into their nesting

procedures to put everything

into structured subranged enumerated records

before they opened the business door
to uncultivated beauteous genius;

for, you see, they knew (or know)

their territory, their competition,

their enemies; experienced
in an exquisite tai chi

they quietly folded backwards
as some roaring ruddy raider
bellowed and screeched wild calumny

at their retro costumes festooned with flurries

of rapid eye movement, privately aghast

at their charismatic choreography

and lush sampling of his aggro compendium;

in their neck of the woods, a shout was as good as

a promise, a promise as good as a fistful of hemp,
a fistful of hemp as good as a hit

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