Thursday, 7 April 2016

Dogwood Drive

Following The Poetry School again, I've dropped into a surrealist hole here ...

On Dogwood Drive

Max looked at the sign, read Dogleg Drive
And so it proved to be.  It was only later he found
he needed new spectacles. The eyes connive
to lie more often these days, even the sound

of the waves come across as broken wire
cut through, the electricity racing along
like buckets of water seeping out of a tyre.
His feet at least make the music of a song

called Creaking Shoes, he heard many years
before he became a clown, sitting at the desk
where he processed insurance claims, tears
of clients fizzing down the line, their chest

thumping.  At least Max thought it was a thump.
He can never be sure of anything in life.

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