I hide crouched in a toilet cubicle until you
lock the doors, secure the building,
and return to wherever it is you came from.
Solitary now, I will wander,
my chance to view each room as they should be beheld,
clear, silent, with moonlight silvering the floors.
Burglar alarm silent I creep across the parquet,
socks shining a trail none will notice.
All this I explore until dawn brings cleaners
sleepy from dreams of better times
[when they could remain in their beds].
As they enter, I slip out, to resume someone else's lifeIt came quite quickly last night and I spent part of the morning trying to get it into a coherent form.
Here's a revised version of a poem from a a few posts back.
George Adamski's in the Pontiac's back seat,
the driver is from Saturn, next to George sits
a Venusian, who bigs up the mundane, claims
to love tv and be just like we are.
He feeds the con man a white bread vision, the solar system
as some banal B-movie town.
Old George for his part, keeps silent about
the flying saucer he's building in the garage.
You see, he needs something people will buy in to,
when he stands in front of paying audiences,
not even his honest eyes can quite swing it.
So he will make that chicken incubator heat
lamp housing fly on film. The Venusian
doesn't care that his world is a nightmare of
green house gasses gone made. That'll come out later,
-just tell the earthlings what they want to hear
and everyone's happy, save Amelia Earhart. Who is either
a housewife hitting the highballs at eleven am. Or
an incomplete set of bones on a Pacific island.
You takes your pick-some realities are much more fun than others.I leave you with the wonderful Kevin Ayers from 1972.
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