My poetry is dying from the waist down. One has to deal with this somehow. Here's a picture of me blowing an imaginary trumpet on the Bowder Stone:

Some Fairies in Blue Scoots

ONE DAY some Fairies from outside became

in Blue Scoots to peel off the Wallpaper tear down

the Lights unwire everything even everyone's Hearts

in clouds of hacking plaster dust and the Fay Fury of our

Organs of lead

unplugged on the wet Pavements outside

shivered the Rain began to rise-oh

what have we done but then the Windows and O 

the Bells began the Bats and Rats

have you ever seen this?

in Startles of scooting blue Arrivals began 

in such strange Gaits we parted from the Scene

again in the Flurries 

(think again of love and what)

our little scaredy Hearts 

might beg for unfairying so they might and what

of it now for surely?

.

Mr Trump on Sunday

attached at either end to hoses and pumps

in accordance with the terms of his punishment

like a great wilted thing slowly forcing itself

into life motivated by some primal need for fodder

Mister Trump inflates, his puckers evening and

ironing out, his cellulite smoothing, his face

taking on a forced fat smile; he rises, unsteadily

shaking, quivering and pink, naked, foolish,

regretful at last; he ascends over the rooftops

like the vast rear end of a fattened autumnal hog

propelled by uncertain farts; higher he climbs,

observed by all viewers everywhere, as children with bows

and arrows with suckers and pea-shooters

attempt to knock him down like a blimp filled

with gas that may just ignite and crash 

upon the grass amongst the cats and sandwiches

to scare the spectators, each of whom 

has paid a heck-of-a-lot of money to be here 

each of whom is a little scared of what might 

happen next; but all that happens is his grin

gets bigger; his bottom balloons out into the clouds

and he drifts away to take his place upon high

in the starry pantheon of people we no longer

give even half a shit about, but would still like

to see die in our heart of hearts

.

 the vastness

of what we cannot be

stretches before us

 for my first few seconds

every morning

you are still alive

 

 these huge ferns

at the riverside

how vigorous, how vivid
how ancient in their ratio
just waiting for us
to fuck off

.

do not for one moment
let your heart stop
for there are miracles yet

to endure 

.