Onstage I bellowed verses to the sky

beside a bunting-woven campsite.

“I’d never seen an aura glow so high!”

you chirped, in my front garden.

A fox-cub stared at us perched on a dustbin.

Beneath the glare of orange lamplight

and puppy, I unleashed my trapped combustion

and kissed you like a Spartan.


Your dreadlocks blazed like sheaves of copper wire.

Your energy could floor a horseman,

leaping off your hand in waves of fire

that almost singed my arm-hair.

From greengrocer to greengrocer you’d tramp

for crops you’d prod around a saucepan

or snapshot balanced on my lava-lamp

and other plug-fed hardware.


Meat would never pass your paintless lips.

Your chakras chimed in time with Brahma.

Every week you’d sally forth on trips

for bold ghost-hunting gourmets.

We prowled around a ransacked office block,

a bullet-littered maze of drama,

a mouldy mossy-carpeted stopped clock

with crumbling doorless doorways.


Festooned with fungus-garnished filing cabinets,

those battered silent rooms had waited

to yank us in like rotting boxy magnets

that shivered like a hospice.

A nitrous oxide tap. Some cardboard signs:

“All occupants evacuated”.

We phoned the local press about our finds

in Her Majesty’s Stationery Office.


That night we made love underneath a willow

behind the lake. And then, no more.

Did I hound you? For some peccadillo,

you strutted out on me.

You snatched a job with journalists who snuck

a fox’s head inside your drawer.

I wanted to call round and offer a hug,

but it was not to be.










© Gammon 2020
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no comments or critique sought.
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