Polonial Ramble

It could be
like pitching pennies at a moving wall
and standing in the ashes.
They tell you that you must be calm
for someday it will rain
but understand this;
you are the only thing left for burning.

The earth is neither chaste nor simple
and its rumours grant all moist indulgence.
Woman is a hard, healing wilderness to man
and Pan's spittle, as he lifts nimble fingers,
crushes the fearlessness of worship;
but it's alright.

Tide yourself over the moon,
a sort of pro bono self-defence
like taffy pulled up a psycho-somatic wire
to the luminescent area of the back room brain.
Still remember, this reflection is not fecund
for seeds apply themselves
to the wheels of the golden chariot only.

We have heard the last note of the ring, wring chant,
purged the dirge,
signed and stamped our paper ceremonies,
acknowledged the hierarchical error,
and confessed on alien knees
beyond the conventions
of emotional disposal methodology.

I have it in my book, writ large,
Some vagary of legislation
that you may not shoot the hare
while in transit on the buses
yet you may dine upon it, moving there,
should you have one readily bagged.