A man face-to-pavement in his own juice rises
Lazarusian over minutes prorogued into hours,
The angel in his raincoats beating him upwards
Like a helium #balloon in a thick grey rag ¶
The mothership of his body has taken a hit,
With every pellet of rain a globule of phlegm#
He spent his whole life hocking into the sky,
Receiving now a baptism of saliva§sliding
And shaking as a newborn calf trembles in
Fluid of a sudden other’s making: the dance of
Amnion, Albion, Albumen, beneath the white
And yellow of the sun ¶ He staggers in his own
Gob’s oil and touches the long unnatural handle,
Gutted and so gutted as his internals, fluttering,
Blink like diodes and spit their last- -he spins
In that silent point at the centre of his- -dance,
Remembers the small white feathers on his tongue,
So quick to pluck for children who became old men©
This is no country for #them ¶ This is the world
Of a wounded rabbit waiting in terror between
Wheels and shadows of cars above§wheels
And shadows of cars above- -he spins in him-
Self symbols fail him moon! he falls
Out of himself as a chimney falls away
From its own ghost #topples and #remains
At one time, twice ¶ Silhouetted in the sky’s
Single silver coin ¶ pooh! ¶ Icarusly he descends
With none of the dignity decline demands,
His thick middle is bleeding heavily in his hands –
Britannio, we thought you were something else
Altogether- -what have you left us right
Outside our library§and§cinema complex but
Two soft plops.
Wood Bee Poet 