Of Morning

Poetry

Frith and festering I sucked dry the bag of coffee bale through
Filters niggling my tongue and exclaiming granular pain:
The morning comes tender, in spearpoints slapping my eyes,
Signal of day awakening and squalling like a lonely babe
Wanting the tit of recognition. That radio cowers on the edge
Nearing perception, fleeing from the horrors of news,

The Horseman War, the Horseman Plague, the vicious rumour
Querulous and trembling in our icy rains, pleading for a fix,
Rough: city fox contemplating bright encroaching lights as
Fearful as fear-making with its mating screams, falsified
Ecstasy. Yes, the night still lingers in these lobes until alcohol
Cleanses sometime after noon. These miscreant days of lonely

Bleating that sing of all the sorrows: I miss those earlier times
When daylight awoke and, solar, powered soft pink-red hearts
In listening and glowing. Those times which now seem gone
And distant like the sides of an alcoholic’s view plane,
Picturing wanton, dark, empty, windy, listening night and
Its draped screech quiet in mourning, missing joy in the light

Of morning.

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