Realistic surrealism.
The entire universe is standing on oaks’ tips.
Toes.
Sir Re-A-Lister’s list says: ‘Err…
We think you are fine,
there’s nothing wrong with your spine.
Let’s wait and see.
Let’s consult Mr. E,
or go down to Neurology.’
We wait and see.
We consult Mr. E
then go down to Neurology.
My babies learn to pee in the loo,
‘I have a special nappy’
says little Evey.
Down the loo goes the poo,
down the loo goes mummy.
What says neurology? ‘Err…
We think you are well.
The scans have nothing to tell,
no ooze, brain’s not ill.
Do you want a pill?
It isn’t for this, it isn’t for that.
We don’t know what got in your head.
It makes you fat,
it makes you sad,
this is the pill you can have.’
I mutely add,
if it goes and makes me mad,
the headache-thing won’t be so bad.
‘If no, that’s fine, we accept,maybe Ortho takes you back.
Realistic surrealism.
Pink,
high altitude rumbling
in my two square meter universe
comes as a verse.
‘Erm…
It is not this, it is not that,
we don’t know what got in your head.
Stay in bed.
You are being fed,
you may well heal and get…
better.
Fatter.
Later –
only caffein recalls the haze
of a confident prince’s midnight gaze
and though i’m smitten,
nothing’s written.
‘This is a phase.’
I’ll live, I’ll die, I’ll miss, I’ll graze
the tops off of the oaks
behind Hagley Park’s roads.
And if the sky’s blue,
the wall’s blue,
the womb’s blue,
the vein’s blue,
the heart’s blue,
the gown’s blue,
the head’s blue,
the words’s blue,
the letter’s blue
changes hue,
I’ll graze again off tops of leaves,
sing and scream and lose beliefs.
I’ll search for life and death and bliss
before it’s over with a hiss.