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.
Eagerly chiselling my sugar-coated self
from the syrup tsunami that flooded this town
after the molasses storage tank
burst in the night, I might take my old plane out
and seed the sky
so that autumn's rain will never ruin
the sweet summer air.