The Bum’s Lunch

the goddess of robots wakes & opens her third eye
the day, the clouds, an aeroplane crawls across the sky
& time flows like sour cream, the grass it squeaks with thirst
i draw my gun to shoot the sky but a raindrop gets me first

a thousand white butterflies all trying to cross the road
cars advance & then retreat, so hands up any ghosts?
& welcome to the cemetery across from yeager’s store
i know you don’t want to go home cos you don’t live there anymore

holding up the universe the beachcomber mum
“hallelujah” she says “now i smell like a bum,”
just then a short cadenza of giggles fell
into her bucket which she carries as well

a champion masochist, i love to watch her walk
she must aspire to something, if not the flower then the stalk
her blasphemies, her prophecies, her idiotic fame
if you listen closely you can hear the ocean in her brain

sitting down where time stops, a four legged chair
why? why? why? graves, photographs everywhere
i’ll be leaving everything exactly as it was
& don’t try coming after me because because because

we’ve all been mistreated except for stanley stone
i’ve seen him on the motorway, he lives there all alone
“they’re giving me another lane,” old stanley sighed
“the dog survived but the headlight died”

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