barley madness

Sitting aloft a kingly oak,
mannikins burning on the lea,
curved, naked, dozing trombones
on a dusty tramline that a farm boy made crooked.
Afar the fawn smudge of a ship
harbouring on the headland
and a crew of pale gold Rastas
tossing themselves into a thorny weave of  brambles
Reason is snuffed out by vigilance of nature
rushing psychodelia rules the waves
in this realm where the self leaves the body
and clings to the air, the grass, the trees
and presses forward to the bliss of death.

Show Comments