A MAN IN HIS HOUSE, ONE NIGHT
We see :
it is a terracotta lekker-landscape of splashed washing lines
genuflecting in a turbo-wind of crimson carelessness
the Joel-man sings, garlic burps, black feathers
with itty-bitty round whitey spots
cracked ersatz-ming cups
a drip-drip tap weeping shyly
into its Twyfords vitreous china-womb,
sings his songs "oh J+B, true pleasure is rare"
indeed so rare;
and hobbling through his stone housey house
the little piggy man goes,
his soiled laundry clutched Linus-like
to his frail gorilla chest,
aimlessly floating, lost, his eyes
ping-ponging off his crap-culture-cave;
he seeks a place, a place to place
his now-sanctified bundle,
he stares at it mystified, it swirls it swirls;
a gaga, pink baby boy-child, blue eyes,
a terribly-used condom
growing from its soft cheek.
(Relates to a Jungian-like dream about an impossible, failed relationship- probably written in Hoekwil in about 1985/6)
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