Electric baby syrup

Electric baby syrup

A Poem by Terpsichore

Here they come again through the strobe shadow rain,
hunched between Popeye houses,
the Russian closet poets wearing thin disguises,
playing with verbal vegetables,
the worst tillers of the voiced soil
since the days of Cain.

And the oilskinned ants arrived today
and it's rained all blasted week
and the lotus seeds are ruined again
and the vision master is acting crazy.
He wants to make another baby,
but everything has gone
three legged race hazy,
and the owl and pussycat
don't waste a second look,
just sail away to the crackle
of burning books.

Raindrops run on telephone wires,
little silvered messengers
of other peoples verbalisations,
the endless variety of never again
to be heard conversation
in this twisted land;
where concerned citizens
simply remain concerned.
And I hear the far distant screaming,
the barks and coughs, they
nearly blew me holy hat right off,
made me jump right out of me clogs,
leaving exclamation marks
arranged in circles
round me ever twinkling feet,
whilst scarecrows danced the tarantelle
and the crows closed in for a treat.

Strange things are occurring,
the cows eat pollution
and me old man's snoring
while his pacemaker goes on whirring
and then he ups and dies, 
just like that, on the spot,
with a top hat and a moustache,
just like a roadkill badger.

So we all left our bikes
propped in silence on bible walls
while the endangered honey bee...
and the weeds and plants grew...
like a fistful of violet mountains
improvident as the dawn
and once more and again...
we fall.

So one final time we hunt
for shots of penicillin
in the cobwebbed pharmacy,
just one more little bottle
of electric baby syrup,
old copybooks of accounts.
Einstein was right,
there are no decimal points here,
just staggered columns 
of handwritten figures
and several acres of old disused tin mines,
millions of toxic blooded heroes
and the meek whisper of time.

Now we are twined up
in wraiths of sea fog,
standing and staring pointlessly
as if resigned to fate,
like lonely dogs in a forgotten kennel;
and somewhere out there is a donkey
honking like a dry pump,
yearning for one more far, fierce hour,
when he will turn left instead of right
and finally have his day in the sun,
oh, how G K Chesterton was so right.

And then there is just silence
and it makes us jump,
and we all helpless
and plain foolish, here in this 
world of decimated opportunity.
Perhaps this would be a good time
to endeavour to love
one another all we possibly 
can until the day we die; 
or at least, we could promise
solemnly to at least try 
one last time.

© 2016 Terpsichore

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I really love the imagery of this poem! From the first line until the last, you had me hooked.

Posted 7 Years Ago

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11 Reviews
Added on February 24, 2016
Last Updated on May 15, 2016



London, United Kingdom

Nothing much to tell really. I work in the city, boring, but lucrative enough to enable me to spend most weekends away from the place. I enjoy writing, reading equally as much. Like retro style cloth.. more..


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