Quixotism of Suburbia
like syrup from the birdless blue sky
rich, gluey colours poured in lambent saturation
hot hot heat on a glossy red Chevy,
a moisture so refulgent it was almost like
freshwater spheres on early blossom – streaming
cool onto the crude tarmac.
In the empty garden
the highway air waited, dense, to thaw glowing cigarettes
the ash that spluttered onto the mown, stalkless grass
by the roses, by the thorns
sodden from dew, drying in the eve’s hum-warmth
quietude endorsed by tradition; a black hosepipe
blue pearls
the stench of turkey
Ever circuiting the blocks
on a winged tricycle rode golden child –
white child, how pious you are!,
the pastor ran, the chimneys swelled
the Persistence of Memory
clocks oozed and slid from bungalow rooftops
An ill-tide bird, wild in a window was throttled
Skin marmoreal and smoking in a shell of prim pastels
homemaker waited contently on the terrace, smearing
rich, fatty lipstick into her birdless vision
fecund with her legs but embryonic in her mind, mute
curtain-twitcher watched through her rose-tinted pane
death with his sickle sliced the turkey
Lottie Kent
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