Canto XIX

It is not natural to shed one’s kit
in some secluded field in Somerset—
let swing one’s shrivelled balls or sagging tits

amidst the cankered oaks and badger sets.
Just like the hermit crab displays its shell
in every illustrated wildlife text,

the true state of the human animal
is when we’re rocking slacks and clomping boots
across a painted stretch of black asphalt.

The trichromatic apes that foraged fruits
whose colours beamed out from the green expanse
are city bound in choo-choos, wearing suits.

Just as the communistic hordes of ants
make their own Babels in their skybound hills
and need no Plato to inspire their plans;

we move to ticking clocks and beeping tills,
though sometimes we retire behind headphones.
Despite the city’s many fears and ills—

this is our mother’s bosom. We are home.

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Aug 09, 2012 @ 09:18:31

    I like the use of colour vision and the fourth stanza in general.

    Reply

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