The dew on the seat of the rusty
winther bmx type pre mountain bike,
like perspiration, in morning decision
to bus or to walk, and prior to this
earth shattering debate, the Doctors
review the case of the girl with fake
kidney stone, the news commentators
discuss the doping of a guy on a bike
the Russian Earl Grey in a cup stews
while the oats and a solitary banana
are consumed, if this happened else
where, then that would be a billion
bananas, quite mind blowing, poetry
is on my mind today, as rushing
to unfurl my say, I think of Marvell
and a dialogue, who is my muse?
Then the publication of the shite
by the editor of the Jutland Post
Flemming Rose, blooms into Hate
Would I love to invent by hand
a form of Tort, that would stretch
the law, to encompass this asshole
and his gardener, to have them
pay for insult, and for their narrow
minded view, I think of this on the bus,
As I watch the familiar scenery
of people waiting at the stop, of people
placing their bags in the seats empty
of friendship, intolerant of stranger
sitting next to their body and person
the space, a plot, a property bought
by a ticket, inconsideration for others,
I move mine, and bulldoze a barrier
of intent to select the friend or foe,
I walk a quick, from the bus stop
making for the haven of university
along two fields bisected by the road
where hooded crows, rooks and jackdaws
breakfast on the once green now mud
as out of some craven necessity
they are expanding like Ikea into nature
building research centres of excellence
and suffocating as they bulldoze a layer
of life lent to us by millions of years
of evolution, for surely that is of value
the worm, the grass, even the nematode,
I walk by the pond and I glance a plop
it is crystal clear, as the small fish there
does a flip of existence, unlike the carp
now gone from the King garden's pond
where the coke bottle floats with debris
of another night out on the town, or contempt
for the living, as if the moorhen or mallard
were part of a shoot and kill game on internet.
