VI. A Strolling Drunk

i watch the mouth of heaven open
in yawning, flecked with milk -
fierce with teeth
i watch alleys bend
like grey flags of silk, caught by draft or by wind;
crooked roads trodden with
smiling daffodils at either end;
i hear saints weeping above me
and saliva,
strung together,
it's pathetic, really -
a very personal dissonance born of a very private melody -
there is a shrill note in the clap of my heels,
and as i keel over, admission spills
'let this be over',
quietly,
i plea,
          though no reply.
agitated by spittle on my knees
and bare feet,
i grunt and
i go inside
wherein a priest and a solider
are waiting to meet
me, their maker
fertile with conceit, yet
barren and dry
a mutiny of self
all deserted of pride.


D.B.B