Les Wicks

 

 

 

On the Nature of Wickedness & Plums

 

Les Wicks

 

Dead Christmas Children

Chaos on the Roads

& everyone knows pure chaos is evil

but perhaps anything pure is evil? Each proposition

has its prozac cons… Department of Mind.

 

Yet we walk on wounded feet, fractured hands

want nothing more than the perilous end

of the taut nylon line with

its bait & bombs.

 

Social workers circle Toby

fixing him right up.

I cannot say perfect any more,

the tawdry polish denies both age & glamour.  But I’ve

tasted the austere Love of gods and governments,

freedom in the pools of gore.

 

In this lusty cowardice

from my dirty money nest

to the guano towers

of my Great Reputation

I stand just as I should be,

just like you.

 

Agog, the selfish charity

of each gift that lands like downpour

on the sprawl of rough shelter.

Children’s Dead Christmas.

 

But this isn’t right either.

I think and thank constantly, a biological tool,

this generosity

that knits the tribe.  I’ve seen the spirit lift, been lifted too…

that woman’s hand or

a shaky reconciliation. Give Glory to our fetish angel

that shines on through

its necessity.

 

Got nothing this year, just what I wanted.

Dodging linns of seasonal lights, etched

by adamant, drowned in a tinny blue, duck

as the memorial park fireworks aim

against the unholy.

Home to block out the carols with

something sharp from Iceland.

 

All the fish are scooped from the sea,

we splash in a sandy vacancy,

the December Seafood Holocaust

which stinks our bins while dogs snigger in the shade.  Pass it by,

but I’m smiling & silly is my key.

Give Glory to this

exquisite stretch of the lips

that saxophone is wrapped…

alone. Children, Christmas is dead,

right on schedule. How else does the rest survive

elves with shovel, a stickytape shroud

& barely a cloud says the weatherman.

 

 

 

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