deepundergroundpoetry.com
Red and pink
18.04
Beneath the bindweed,
between bush vetch and ivy,
garlic buds splitting,
my organ lays
as if made out of felt,
stuffed with fluff,
stitched up in a rush,
thrown out of a teacher's
anatomy routine,
it would mould in the rain
but I don't seem willing
to take the fantasy out of it,
make it pumping
and necessary,
striving for life,
seem instead keen
to watch it turn to waste,
quiet, like weeds torn out,
roots left above ground -
I'll write about it on Mondays.
Beneath the bindweed,
between bush vetch and ivy,
garlic buds splitting,
my organ lays
as if made out of felt,
stuffed with fluff,
stitched up in a rush,
thrown out of a teacher's
anatomy routine,
it would mould in the rain
but I don't seem willing
to take the fantasy out of it,
make it pumping
and necessary,
striving for life,
seem instead keen
to watch it turn to waste,
quiet, like weeds torn out,
roots left above ground -
I'll write about it on Mondays.
Published 19th Apr 2022
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