Hilltop café blasted with ants

Hilltop café blasted with ants

A Poem by Laerrus

Record the day

Record the very essence of the day

Place it in an envelope and leave it on a train

Punish all the farmers with gin

Laminate your hair with a cargo full of toys

Tell your neighbour the names of the days

Include them in the song before lunch

And return the fields to the people of the night

Those dark hearted tourists of night

The ones who seek the knowledge of the down

The healing sinking heads and the broken luminescence

Rejoin the world on a Sunday morning

Fill it with roses and coins for the fountain

Treat the day like night and behave accordingly

We were not so careful of the day

The night took us to various worlds

And worlds without heaven or hell

Unfinished worlds we could repaint

Loaded with chimes and shiny objects

We spoke of in the past

A future creation covered with grass

Hilltop grass only used on weekends

Refuse the animations of noiseless lights

Resound and resole the walkers before dawn

Their drumming moon hair dances before the wind

And birds launch the torrid corpses at the faces

Before the days start

I dream of long winds and swollen hooves

Beating out paths of hail and retreat

Animals course through the balling waters

Candles and crocodiles spill the wonder

Over a thousand different corners

The corners of occupation that cover the road

The hill road we walked together

It was marked by bus stops and toreadors

With hand carved walking sticks

And piano briquettes

They hurled out the silence and thrust it to the wind

The sunshine sand gowns were lost to the world

A single blow of consciousness

And a hum from six hundred gardens

The space and time intermingled with drops of rain

And the crumbling fall from grace as the drained hair

Rose to the roof and smouldered

Sloping toward an unknown goal

Like butterfly clips in an eventful net

And the music wrote the thunderstorm

Before the day regained control of its senses

End each journey with a tassel marked for home

And retake the laden calves and bake their heady faces in cloud

Soft fragrant clouds sponging across an ocean of haze

Dappled with penny farthings and hoops in soft cages

Languid dresses tapered with colours unknown

Crested colours the night people speak of with mirth

Their unguarded wisdom berates all colour

And softens the drinking water with red

A touch of glistening bliss in a basin of heathens

I have returned now with she that was my company

And we laughed in sandwich shops and afternoon sun

A religion was lost on us

And we laughed again

Clapping together at the rainbow gods

That chafe the hearts of incomers

We interlopers of love and laughter

Ha-ha to the hungry souls we drank down

The ones we left in the wilderness beneath the carpet

Goodbye and good luck on a road less travelled

We walk by car across the bridge we built in stone

Goodnight little birds and soapy house hunters

Good luck little creatures from beyond our mind

The mounded furniture left us in wild longing

And we went with the hurling light in eyes of green

The granular flow of forested people let us leave

Like fragments of trees under rainy hills

Borrowing a torrent of carded pictures

And antelope songs

We saw the hazy light lies

And listened into the morning mist

A lake of owl faces corrupt with coloured love

Beckoned us back to the path we miswrote

A collapsing path of generic moments in specific times

A singular blade of grass beneath us tuned itself

To the clinging mist walls and hearted grass cows

A poetry class in a pottery town

With added lunch by the severed mountain

© 2013 Laerrus

My Review

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Thanks for reviewing my poems.

Your poems are driven by an enviable, unbridled energy that reminds me of my younger days. Your words appear flung into the air, but they fall into a sort of sense. I would imagine that in your painting you do something similar. I would say that if we can move to some degree a reader or viewer or listener in our respective arts we are happily sparked.

Posted 8 Years Ago

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1 Review
Added on November 14, 2011
Last Updated on January 25, 2013
Tags: poetry, surrealist writing, surrealism, laerrus



Somewhere, under a passing windowsill, United Kingdom

I'm an English Surrealist artist. I wouldn't really consider myself a writer but I do enjoy words and my writing mostly comes from using the Surrealist technique of automatic writing. You might.. more..

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