it grows on you

By | 1 June 2013

you lift a hand to sweep away
the cobwebs a rubber spider
is about to infiltrate your best
eye so entertain it with sweet
valentines the people in the park
may still be there even if you
dare not think of them or understand
their costume jewelry

the medieval greyhound flares across
your passage like a literal confirmation
can you read the subtext of that
syringe dangling at the periphery
of the paper rose

do you like the digitally enhanced
duck pond of the sesquicentenary
parklands tick all the boxes as
your lapdog poos in paradise clearly

is this where the national lector
slept with her tattered script,
a dream of playing tennis on
a painted lawn with hamlet;
how the rows of trams burned
brighter than ilium or carthage
i saw the exhibition – some inferno
and then i hit the sack

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