- Vol. 07
- Chapter 10
What are those figures, symbols, sky,
and what might they portend without -
mosquitoes pulsing others’ blood,
a squadron from the darker side,
spread vampire aliens, tarmac bred,
each launched or landing, angle poise,
flit lamps, yet black, from cumulus?
Some wayward drones, gnats oversized,
as scene, snake, insects in the grass,
moon-walking pose, limbs Manx about,
flung rotaries, air louts on scout,
or look-out gad flies peeling back?
Or is that track a lake, in fact,
grey ripples, dotted duckweed float,
these hover, walking-water steps,
an overrule of gravity?
Meniscus sheen too thin for me,
trout pond though dragged as lunar site -
no tide would pull that surface dance?
Confused as hog, roll hedge, night out,
the pricking of my thumbs, no doubt,
a numbness, glisten in my eyes -
slug slime must have been laced with draught,
film psychotrope, weed-killer snout,
that mandrake root, pulled fork-tongued shout.
If only I was slim, could flout,
not simply snuffle, gadabout.