Sunday poem

If I made a plaster-cast of a sponge
Would it become leaden-ary
Thus begins my Sunday poem!

Drawing! (sawing)
Table (if I was able)
Ice-cream scoop – (a sculpture)
Loop the group
Nothing – out of a star comes
Crumbs . . .. of imagination
Meaning = nothing such, no beginning.
Flamingos fly to heaven
Somewhere, a dead fox sings
Ukraine, when it rains in Ukraine
The rain stops a train
Cold air from the window
That I’ve opened to allow a fly
Buzzingly out into the yard
Gone
The usual voices of
The women in the flats opposite
Taps squeaking
Children asking questions
And domestic debate
Imagine
A big bird swoops down
Picks up a line of traffic
From the ground
Into the sky, flies off with it
Traffic quickly heals itself
Fills the gap with noise and blood and swearing

The hollow of my veins
Filing with liquid

The liquid gurgles down
Through the walls of arteries

The sound vibrates and echoes
As the liquid drains out somewhere

What am I reading?
It’s a secret
What am I feeling
It’s a double secret

A double agent
That feels confused
Like a lead weathervane
On a roof

The monkey appears
The women are astronauts
In medieval courts
The clown with a balloon
Censors what you think

It’s still Sunday
The alarm has not sounded
*
The alarm sounds
I awake with a start
It’s nothing
It’s only Sunday
There’s no performance
It’s quiet
The quiet, the air is still

My pen is draining
It’s raining again, from my pen
It’s empty, a void
In my pen
Will it make some noise?
The roller ball scratched
The quality writing pad, lined
the ink is black,
The ball bearing is shot
Around the game machine
10, beep; 500, beep
Then rolls down the hole
I try to pull the trigger
I shoot
Too late the casino has gone
The casino in my head
*
I’m weak from hunger
Yet it’s also an anger

It’s a walking in the footsteps
Of Sunday afternoon
So much comes to life
So much dies
On a Sunday afternoon
I’m angry at the song outside
As if all is well and someone’s in love
But little by little, things die
Die of hunger, heartbreak, wounds
It’s Sunday

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