Af Williams
Af Williams Poems
Lennon is alive!
He still hates milk.
He comes with music,
the bells of Hillslope hang on ginger cords,
...
I had a photo in my bag, it was heavy stuff, man.
Empty catwalking streets of rage.
Empty is a rhinestone-studded staircase of unequal stairs.
Empty does what hope can only dream of.
...
Paper-drop eyelid flourish
swirls in saliva solutions
the knife-edge of midnight
...
The Best Poem Of Af Williams
October 20th, Noon, Lounge
Lennon is alive!
He still hates milk.
He comes with music,
the bells of Hillslope hang on ginger cords,
old lettuce in garden - penny for the guy!
He tracks north to south in slow meandering movements.
He licks the underside of icebergs between frond and blade.
He knows mice tongues as his own
curious thing in search of curious things.
Beyond the medlar is invisible,
something is there beneath the root of sails
and rotting fruits of all-summer labour.
Something is there in the wetness,
the month pulped out of form and into focus.
The bells are trickling now the tap's dry.
Lennon must be skulking around the cemetery,
a requiem exudes from Pablo's patch.
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4/25/2024 6:16:46 PM # 1.0.0.1119
