The Sky

there was a uniform
inactive grey,
except when stared at
through a chainlink fence;

those who could
kept dogs
to be led around by,
affecting blindness

and pitied the students
of ancient languages
their wealth
of particles. No one thought

outshone the mica;
once the chancellors
learned to tweet
the incident

turned to harmless fun,
the spice of banter
hustled into sachets
stored in one’s top pocket just in case.

Art

As I approach the man in the painting starts to cry
over what happened
with the little crickly

crackly sound
a dead fly
makes when you pick it up.

Poor bloke,
tied to instances
with a bluish-white blob for an elbow…
It’s about time
he put the kettle on
or had a thought
about a woman’s lips.

The fly
begins to fizz
in the trash.

~

If you could paint
the sunlight on the wall
your whole life long
and never grow
a business, or bored;
breathe some clouds onto the blue…
But here comes
the middle of things.

~

We’ve been waiting for some time
– but for what if not more of the same?
Trying to appear
predatory and also faintly bored,
like the wallpaper at Wilde’s remark;
some discover art for art’s sake
after not before
they lose it all. Some are the trashed fly
and others, the middle of things. . .
most are brought aboard
by work and love
before they grasp what they already have.
Don’t you cry before it happens.