"Out here we is stoned, immaculate."
Jim Morrison carves an altar out of a grey Sunday and I
by colour making my fingers itch, words
piling into stalagmites
pushing for release
Lizard king, slither out now, I
can't focus in the deluge. My
eyes ache for wool's soft tug, I crave
Pattern and rhyme, need to hear
A mosaic of line and shade.
Spattered and bruised and ragged,
Not stoned. I need a funnel, a filter, a
When this gladiator war is complete, I will lapse into
re reading cookbooks and knitting books
Lamenting my spare time.