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.