Dear London. You were so dickenish today. Dim and damp and dimdamp. Beneath your darkdying skies I dreamt of a doe eyed darling in dear dirty Dublin, while the wind whispered from the Westminster. No doubt, it was all dead depressing.
S complained --I’m unable to wriggle my wettoe.
Is that so?
What? When? Water? Wet?
Endofitall S asked me to write a poem.
A poem?
Yes.
So Did Leopold bloom actually write a poem?
Negative.
No?
Well yes, sort of with a mongrel accent.
Hence?
He was politely banished from the commonwealth.
Seahorses and eons they worship. Tatewanderers all.
Then it declared upon itself as a saxon-poem of all England, Ireland and Wales.
Why do you want a poem? All poems are
Banana republics. Take one here. The aspect of
Window shopping and its limitations
Heart mind, right breast if you like, art of lost memory?
Can a bliss too? Love and longing.
Lost, not the series brother.
Drop a hint, pick
up a clue.
Legends, myths, folklores, if you have a long tongue
Acts of rituals, alienated tumours. Some conventions here and
there, white wine
While you wander. No? Rhymes, metres and
other such medieval bollocks.
Boundaries, territories and these days, somethings they call
identities, Me you. Reader, conscience all
the possible
imageries in the pregnant platonic universe ; pain and
painkillers . Family
and finally post
modern faith.
Quite creepycrawl that, she replied. Quite. Blakian buttocks.
Quite
