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.
There's an undulating throb in the Mammonic temple
that really resonates in precise conditions; i.e.
when masticating over particularly nasty pink gristle,
when overwhelmed by an oppressive mountain of guff,
or when spread out over a thousand leagues of uncalligraphic
digital ink and drowning in an orgy that would redden
the rosy cheeks of the most Caligulan administrator.
Mostly it quivers when the established connection has ended,