Friday, 16 December 2011

Ted on Infinity Bus

Heavy, with rain soaked myth on infinity bus

wise Mytholmroyd brow, sings silent, feathered

overlooking industrial nose in grey, morning expression.

What object is this, that offers your dark stones reprieve

starring outward through tabacco smoke

with endless rings of buddhas gone

old and forged from lost green hills

where jaunty figure sat

mediating iron incarnations and

the bitterness of sculpting winds

whence you licked your mind through pipe

and built your head from stone.

Now eternally fleeting we meet alone

on bus through featureless time pastures circling

What do you know of, my Poet Laureate?

my eternal Day Rider

my enigmatic spade, breathing hieroglyphs

fossilised inside weeping back seat heath.

I bought your book of letters

I know your nicknames

yet you say nothing of sweet awakenings

nothing of the resonant hills and the clean shaven face of divinity

and yet I wish to scribe ineffable ennui onto soft pillows, brightly

until suns emerge

and buses groan.

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