Alexander Hawkins Poems
El Cocos Locos
Morning demands different rules.
Life is a mess hidden by the patterns of public transport furnishings,
like confetti vomit or nauseating square spirals
speckled with gum, bile and worse… so much worse.
Itemising these wonders is work for us whacky folk, for whom decades
doodle on by whilst we're on the phone, twiddling with a helix-like phone cord.
Exasperated, I applaud. It's all become a bit too much.
Communication before understanding… oh, I don't understand the morning.
Conspicuous In Absentia
Under a buzzing mechanical Cyclops,
the carefree run carelessly
through fields of fire-cracked sizzling rapeseed
backlit by the pure blue of firmament's filament.
Joy cascades and splits upon the stony cliffs of acrid spirit
and sunders joy until there's nothing left but spittle
spat from hack to hack and back again
until it is a vagrant joylessness, exotic in the midst of a bloom.