Jolly Houses On Broom-Tailed White Horses

Six o'clock awoke in the trees
to the clapping of bells
and jolly houses
galloped past on broom-tailed white horses
up the hilly day, and around the sun,
where red poppies lay quietly down
in the eyes of a blue garden
perched in a gazebo
where ceremonies hideous and mysterious,
rubbed the great ancient circuses
together like sticks,
as undreamt lumbered forth
day with its mob wagging torches
in the unconscious cities
governed by holy heretic parliament,
muttering the seven sacraments
of terror, joy and desire,
as they madly stomped through skulls,
keen for the pretty, queer lights of the Empire,
before heaping their bodies on the fire.

When Morning Knocks Gladly

When morning knocks gladly,
eager with lunatic opinions,
thoughts float like dead fish
on the shiny surface of day,
bearing the sad miracles,
the sacks of hearts
one must dig a hole for
in the undefiled gladness,
awaken the handsome moments
of quiet apologies
that fill our hands
with starlight
and close forever
the secret passage
from night.

I'm Baggy In Because

I'm baggy in because
and snug in why,
all bundled
in my warm goodbye --
and smug in my now,
my Oh my some-how
come honey me with moon-gleam,
till I'm wild in my anyhow,
and every if's dream
a revolution of whys,
and humble never-was
slay mighty always-been
with surprise.

Little Piggy Everything

Oh, now there secretly
once stuffed a black kerchief
down can't tell you's mouth --
and who'll ever guess
watched little piggy everything,
in waistcoat and trousers,
lug that heavy I tell you,
with Love's dead body
snug in a bag of why nots,
upstairs where can't tell you
waited in the long, thin dark
of a last believe what you wish.

-- Ernest Slyman

[the work] [diner] [dialogue] [theory & practice] [opportunities] [archives] Volume Two, # Two ©1999 - 2000