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 are legends of legionary squalid scoopers
fishing out dirty coppers from a silvery font
after an uncommunicative visit to the community centre,
where they draw the line between dole queue and pig trough.
If you ever want to have a decent chance at that election
please work hard on that frustrated inflection.
You should ditch that funny little pickelhaube
And hurry up and find all your old deutschmarks.