zafusy

Once only the tussock’s
bananaslide of obverse moon
blanched its fool’s gold
waxing into a ubiquitous moth, glassy scales
vapour-like with fine drawn night lungs.

Legend in a blinding flash,
L.S.D. is my drug.

And again it’s unwrapped
a soaked-up compound.

Gather sounds in the Dene,
goblins crackle in wild flowers,
rats and chiffchaffs
on the jungle-green leaves of twiners.

Maytime and Whitsun,
Michaelmas and winter,
the nights are always sable black
edges tinged with pale purple…

…and little-butch Kristina,
insisting with reflection
image-building and invention
are wings on which we fly.

Disbanding infusions of Blue Note jazz
with Malcolm and the universe,
I had a Sun-Ra fathomable eye,
gobbledegook to plot
the electric orb of life.

And trips were like river Oz
with lighthouses,
a galaxy of broken water,
incredible bearings to find
before climbing down from the bar stool.

Christopher Barnes

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