Getting Ready For A Date.
A soak, a jolly good rub down with turf,
a dab of juice, extracted from the sex organs
of plants, and a pose before the vertical pool.
My coverings are neatly folded - ready to wear.
First, a forked tongue, white as innocence,
a full, frontal feature on something that comes
in pairs. Can you mention its name?
I step into them, pull them up, and make sure
that everything is tucked in - for a good effect.
A collection of spider's webs, together sewn,
and dipped in milk. Over the head and shoulders -
it's a good fit. Talk about style!
This is unfinished; it's a bit grubby;
it's being spun around me, while I speak.
In front, a line of mushrooms grow, and through
opened eyelids, their heads appear.
Abreast, they keep a grip on things -
they stop the world becoming loose, immoral.
From beneath the topmost fold, a kipper
eyes the world.
And to my classic look - my herring bone affair;
It's stiff; it's been pressed until the bones are brittle,
creased, and aired. It suits me. To be sure,
a snake pelt holds the bottoms up.
For my southern-most extremities, a pair of bird's nests
stretched, and pulled, inch by inch, into shape, until
they fit, like gloves. They're slightly bent, I agree,
but I wear them, all the same.
I slip on the only pair of crocodiles I have -
they're hungry, their jaws snap at each step;
if noticed, they could create a bad impression.
Towards the puddle on the wall, I look;
I see myself against the pool - back to front.
'You'll do,' I mutter, with a smile. Another me
smiles back. I pick up my access twisters, and
leave the washroom.
Half way down the hallway, I pause,
and from the antlers, take the octopus.
I put it on. It's raining spots of ink,
I adjust the tentacles. Is the octopus on straight?
A little this way, and a little to the left. Perfection.
I have a date. I'm off to see Medusa.
Copyright 2003 by Terry Miles.
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Half a Letter to the Editor,
Time magazine.
I am writing -
my disappointment
in balanced reporting:
articles,
micronesia,
nostalgia.
I am not challenging
the many examples cited
as evidence of neglect...
I did regret, that he did,
balance his report,
plans and programmes
to rebuild
and develop
these programmes,
of over,
and up to,
in the future.
1969.06.23 Goa.
Copyright 1969 by Terry Miles.
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Dry-Iced.
Where are they now?
They, that never say, die?
The unusual method of disposal,
drew national attention.
Dry iced, his blood was drained,
and replaced with anti-freeze,
then shipped to Phoenix, Arizona,
beside his wig-maker.
1969.03.26 Goa
Copyright by Terry Miles.
***
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