I
What of the prow of the arm-
does it bend like a greenstick fracture?
In 4am when the birds waken
with whistle and flute, cock and sure
that will annoy, even the deadest of dead;
tap-tap on the wood
with wings of newness
this day the poet picks up her pen
& breaks the rules
- Curls toe to beam and bends
nothing is broken or mended today
She counts fingers, toes and toe-rings
all shiny-shiny with dark purple polish
O' the decadence of wishful thinking
II
white sails float on the ceiling
and sirens wail across the city
streets are sliding-slick
and how the sickness prevails:
birds, dip-dip in the murky puddles.
And the tree in the garden
with the pretty white blossom
brushes the window; pain
broken arms, branches
carved children, in the night.
III
his arms won't stop pointing
towards the door,
the fucking birds whistle in his head-
beat the bastard drum
dig the vein
dig the insane
bangs to a tambourine rain
drum drum drum city style lines
the CIS building stands proud
done in neon
a technicolour deliverance.
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