Saturday, February 4, 2012


“Schwantz by Moonlight” © Mike Absalom January 1st
2012

Under the butter yellow moon
Schwantz flies with the grace
of a slug looking for his acorn.
The fleshed arrow of a snipe
judders to a halt above him in the night,
but in his dreams he is one
pointed.
He knows only his eternal
quest.
Poor sad rumbling rampart of
sorrow!
Acorns grow up to the sky,
Schwantz, but until they are planted
look for them first on the
ground!
Take a lesson from your
relative the pig,
a sausage meat and grocery
product beloved of your whole family!

Under the butter yellow moon
a thin winter wind sidles
about in the rushes,
cold and indifferent as a
snake,
counting the dead lambs
like an insomniac willing
oblivion.

Does that remind you of
anyone?
I went from adolescence to
old age,
he said, without a single
year of psycho-therapy.
It cost too much.
Yes, but you end up paying.

See how the sheep move
under the butter yellow moon,
damp shadows, going nowhere,
lacking the cruel purpose of
the wind.

I’ll wet his tea, said Mam,
but when she came back with Da’s
mug
he had gone to the factory
without a single year of
psycho-therapy.

As for me, I went from
adolescence to senility
without a single intervening
year of adultery.

Under the butter yellow moon
Schwantz flies with the grace
of a slug looking for his acorn.

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