Just as the Profumo newspapers
Were hitting the street
A young boy
In a blue van
Was being driven towards
The Post Office Tower
The van stopped suddenly
And the young boy
Banged his head
On the driving mirror
He decided not to die that day
He slumped back
Bloodied
Into the passenger seat
Dreaming of Hinton Twelvetrees
Teaching his class about
Gut Apples & Identical Power Houses
The young boy scrawled on his notebook
Red Brick is never sick
Blue Brick is my pick
Childish prattle (rattle) what a battle was his rhyme
As a punishment
For defacing his
Small Black Bible
He was made to sit next to the girl
With the long copper hair
That nobody liked
Her name was
Melissa Melissa
They were travelling towards Dover
But there were many trains
So they chose the train
With Credit Pollard
Written on the side
In light blue paint (still wet)
A main in a wheelchair was waiting
For his train on the opposite platform
He was not crippled
But had seen
God
And considered him to be his
Identical Hero
Next to him
Sat a woman in a turquoise scarf
Who was eating a Black Apple
The juice from the fruit
Had fallen onto
Her scarf
Staining the delicate material orange
The colour of the sunset
Cline Clasp Gas Fields Rich in Rape Passed Rapidly
The day of violence had passed
Only the music remained
Tom Sixpence
Tom Sixpence
They sang as the night drew far close vose vose forever closed
Tom Sixpence always brought the rain that washed the new lichens
Off of the houses house passing
The elderly lichens were not touched as they had decayed
And had turned to Gold
At the age of fifty-five
The young boy
Leaned on a farm gate
And watched his birthday unfold
On the mirror opposite
Which had been nailed
On to a dead tree
By his predecessor
He took a pen knife
From his pocket
And carved
Si Sup Saradus
Epicuron Naradus
Into the rotted wood
For no other reason
Apart from the rhyme
He knew no-one would read it as they were only interested
In the reflections of the mirror
He picked up a stone and threw it at his aging self
The mirror shattered and was blown away
By a dust storm passing
The stump trees led to the church at the base of the hill
In the graveyard
There were forty-eight graves
Arranged in six tidy rows
Of eight
Of six
Arranged in eight tidy rows
There were forty-eight graves
In the graveyard
The stump trees led to the church at the base of the hill
The was not the geography of design
It had happened accidently
As the resting
Had died
At random times
The young boy and the girl with the copper hair
Hid behind the gravestones
For one minute each
Until the game was over
Twenty-four minutes
After it had started
He watched the people leave
The Rossetti Exhibition at the
NATGAL (as it was now called)
He counted them in fours (a Pythgoran number)
As they walked towards the Strand
He had reached the age of
One Hundred and Five without interruption
And was seated in a wheelchair (many years retired)
In Trafalgar Square
He was alone and had been so all day
Occasionally kind hearted people
Asked of his welfare
He eloquently explained
That he was not crippled
But had met God on many occasions
As the evening lengthened
It started to snow
Which surprised the young boy
As the month was July
Yellow petals had begun to descend
Symmetrical in shape
And vivid in colour
The young boy
Began to weep
As he knew he had died
And that his restless hand
Was now floating
In the vibrant waters of the fountain