[Guest Post #2]

[image by artist and photographer Nick Dormand]

Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

[image by artist and photographer Nick Dormand]

A wait for the weight
of this long and heavy scare
in the dark of hope.

It is a huge weight
and the long scared wait in this,
hope never more dark.

It is the long wait
and the massive weight of this,
heavy on our hope.

Who would
have thought of them
as furniture assassins?

Mine here
at this desk has witnessed
so many findings.

Ergonomics
if you have the disposable
income:

we should be
kneeling, but our poor
are anyway.

Buttock-popliteal length
is no longer an apt measurement for
life expectancy.

In ten centuries
of change, comfy things for sitting
and lounging on

have facilitated an
advancement in the democracy
of indolence.

That old game of
explaining to an alien why
we invented the chair –

and them standing there,
a floating essence
in air.

If Commodity Culture
is a title for the next found prose poem,
will it be entirely ironic?

Allhallowtide’s ebb and
flow of candies and other
secular consumerism.

Obliged
to consider
purgatory.

How I smelt the discarded innards
of my neighbour’s pumpkin over yesterday’s
bifurcating fence.

Guising
sounds so
civilised.

Once upon a time,
white sheets were draped as ghosts
tricked along safer streets.

Pet dogs
too ugly to need
a disguise.

Stingy Jack,
the Devil and
turnip terrors.

That myth
of LSD in the
popcorn balls.

Background story here.