by Patricia Walsh
Not everyone can have this, a silken solitude
a simplistic hunger bangs on the door,
walking to perfection, goldenly blending
an opportune tea blots out the agony,
sugared askew in a lowered consciousness.
The selective clouds threaten to stop,
incessantly ringing the times asunder,
not property reading yet, what is not understood,
rattling off art a result displayed,
drinking wind a luxury still forestalled.
Clamouring for recognition, few scraps here and there
still little to go on, translating the several joy,
watering comprehension to the artistic life,
coloured marbles cautious bite the arse
of bourgeoisie pink, sleeping in doorways, good.
Psychedelics for the better, coldly relaxed,
some loss of control better than none at all.
Like it’s out of fashion, already blowing it away
today’s special earning its photographs
the nicer name clawing up the window.
Hold up from a success, taking up seats,
not answering the phone for fear of engagement
requesting the leave from your own family
Jesus said as much to careworn disciples
this yoke being light, floundering on the quiet.