Dragonfly on the rock.
Daydreams in the sky.
Men that matter on the deck.
Women a far cry.
Children fishing on the rocks, gathering crabs that claw.
Picking nets of blue synthetic, meshed like entwined twine.
Twirling networks on ship decks. Asking questions ‘why?
Men that matter with their girls rigging themselves ‘high’.
Dragonfly has sucked all in and then decides to cry,
“God! I can’t match this blinkin’ world I need to bulldoze high!.”
Dragonfly on the rock.
Children by the sea
Children fishing carelessly quite happy with their ease.
Dragonfly calculates and flaps his wings to flight.
He denies, and sees the children run:
Who’s unafraid to pick and fish?
Who’s unafraid of space, who’s unafraid of ‘what’s next’?
And unafraid of haste.
Dragonfly flies out at sea, he’s sucked his solitude,
he’s taken air, as wine to drink and sees a magnitude:
Within himself he starts a game and thus entwines himself.
He takes the blue mesh synthetic and twines it into time.
He does not question. But weaves a myth, a circle in our minds.
retains the children’s twine in windmills in our minds.
And then begins to build and build. Build cakes only for swine.
Dragonfly on the rock has moved away with time…
He flew into a room.
He sat upon a ‘sill and waited for the noon.
He waited for the shades to fall….
And dragonfly lulled on and on.
in that room sat but one man, a coldish cod who smoked his pot.
But dragonfly knew none of this but watched this man and watched him nod.
And so it was that when he slept rocking in his chair that dragonfly took chance and moved.
He sat upon the ol’ man’s arm
hairy at its sides,
of grisly manhood strength
that had by now gone by.
The man and fly now shared a stance.
The man asleep by now.
And dragon jigged upon his arm
to sounds of ceiling fans and flute.
The fusion shook, in Herbie style.
For although man was sleepin’ high,
the Hancock beat didn’t die.
Now dragonfly had danced a while,
his cellophane’s were taut.
The crispness of the morning sun
had made them even short!
No burning sweat,
No humidness, had wilted them at all.
So dragonfly was proud to note their potency et al.
So then, he hopped onto the man, but now onto his lips
And smelt a crude outlandish stench of worn paper and bits:
the kind from cheroot tips.
And so he tried to lick a bit – discover its’ glib.
But when he stuck his smallish tongue into the old man’s lips
he caught a new acquired taste of cocoa chocolate chips.
So licked he did and high he went:
that cheroot to his lips.
And after he was full he flew down to his hips.
he saw the papers white into his pocket hip with slits
of brown tobacco-grass and mushy chocolate bits.
The man now shook
now quite awake.
The tickling wakened him. His lips he scratched
He coughed a while and spat a slug of spit.
Brown it was
A slimy one
An amoeba on his tiles.
The blue that was, was now quite brown, with vomit and some bile.
But off he went to taste that too.
And slurp he did awhile.
The greedy bastard did not stop he loved it “so erstwhile”.
When in a sec of discovering
he heard a cough and cry.
So loud it went
the hiccups too
the man was spitting bile.
My dragonfly was quite confused; he slurped up more and more.
The rumbling of the slimy slug came down with hiccups too!
But dragonfly was high as is,
to stop within his tracks.
For with the mush of cocoa bile was also wine to blast!
Then came the thug
That awful thug:
the man he shook at last.
He scrunched with stomach cramps gone ‘nigh’
and bent and to hold his ass.
Unknowingly, he caught it firm
to get his balance right.
But in the mix-up with his worm he even caught this fly!
The cellophanes had cracked by now, they split into a tear.
So loud it was the sound that tore.
It made my dragon bray!
For there he was ‘tween finger and thumb waiting
Waiting for his synthetic mesh to entwine him on and on.
My fly held back his plight and latched to gather time.
He waited for the sounds to start and also for the guy,
“Maybe he’d shift his hand a bit, maybe he’d even try:”
“A hiccup too, a belch, O yes, a flap, a pee, more wine’’.
he held to dragons’ wing and forgot all space with time.
He flopped onto the floor of bile
and laced his chin with grime.
And when he flopped
he screeched a sound that vibrated with time.
And so it was he lay a while with no noise more to cheer.
For no noise flapped those cellophanes
and no noise made this clear:
the sharpening of a fact so rich
that he was ‘bout to hear
that within the windmills of his mind he’d lost his grip, his kite.
So he stayed and so it was that dragon learnt his plight.
That no noise was as deafening as the sound of no flap,
And no yawn.
Within the windmills of our mind.
(no miles to wait)
Dragonfly on the rock.