He is not all I thought he was
There is a certain hole in the head
He gives
Like a stroke
To the weather
The storm clouds fill dark skies
And I am in the hole
A rain doctor came to forecast my health
He gave a dance
Then rewarded himself
By pulling the oceans around the shoulders
Of the land
And comforting the wet sand
Of unknowing universes
Of unkind minds
And the dredge of what
The swallows call spring
He tied a poesy around cider with rosy
And let her be the single
Succulent tree of life
Because the truth is nobody gives a shit
About the little man
We are the inconsequential stuff of life
That others more powerful
Gauge their own success by
The measure of what it means to be free
By degree
But no-one is truly free
Just the anointed hierarchy
Of a duodenal dawn
That leaves everything tochance
Even the consequences of being born
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