howl of a platypus that split its pearls
To buy the burnt out billabong
clouding judgement of
well heeled longing for the vanishing
Seven phases away from stringed if
It can’t fathom why wouldn’t return
hollowed pocket be thy name.
We were kids swinging like conkers
On a tree ignorant of the captains
Bottle and brass Rum rubbings
With axe to grind at the organist
Which was a played by a cigarette card.
If it’s written could you wrung it out to dry
and if the world wasn’t already writhing
with rhetoric frankly your drink looks
like dropped sorrow.
bequeathed from wreaths of painted poppies
arguing about syrup tins having forgotten
it was last used to wash the brushes
of the taut Feathers of the laughing owl.