I know an alchemical art
which is as ancient as man.
Do you see transformation
on the lines I scratch?
There is an illusion of creation,
but it is just humble change.

Weeping was my lot.
Half asleep, two little sparrows
left their own land
‘refugee’
I kiss their bodies,
the colour of wheat in summer.
They complain into the watering.
It was my lot to be the cloud!

The ceaseless body carries on
when perhaps you should stop
and plot a route. A path.
A freeing twist.

Hoochie grumpy bumblebee!
Mum and Daddy said to me:
Go to university
and study something science-y.

Hoochie happy old plum tree!
When I'm older I will be
in audit, consultancy,
an accountant, wait and see!

Hoochie silly split green pea!
I'll be rolling in money!
In my lunch break, matcha tea,
then everyone will respect me.

Hoochie dour notary!
One day I'll have property,
a mortgage. By seventy,
maybe I will be debt free.

Hoochie lonely divorcee!
My kids will not speak to me
and I'll see out my final years
in regret.

If I were you, I just wouldn’t take it.

If I were you, mate,
I’d tell that jumped up boss of yours
where to stick it.

Mate, if I were you,
I’d dance among the clouds
and liberate myself of earthly bonds.
Easy.

Honestly, mate,
I’d walk in that office and tell ‘em
they’re all full of shit,
then metamorphose into something winged,
a flapping fritillary,
and be done with ‘em.

That’s what I’d do,
if I were you.

Lonely Robin plays pizzicato,
punctuating hushed half-light,
dream breaker.