Good
Friday
He
sometimes writes good, Fridays.
Of a
Friday, some faraway Friday
using
a half-remembered typewriter
of
bedroom red-blue sticky ribboned
clatter-clack
snapdragon tangle key
fingers
misfiring muddy memories:
green
hills, cliffs, rains that quench,
rains
that drench, rains of new brent
classrooms,
sweet in boiled cabbage
splinter-wood
floors, puddles that soak
semolina
blood-rose hip syrupy teachers
playing
one fingered piano tunes,
while
sitting children stir and stir
with
spoons the Sheffield stainless steel
red
pools into white to conjure cream,
whirlpooling
wonder into dream
words
onto Basildon Bond paper.
Potent
the magic sugar kaylie spell
fizzes
on the tongue when young
taught,
rote wrote words of caterpillar
flies,
every gold buttercup butterflies
from
every chrysalis a key change
major
major minor, dot, dot, dash
and
Jesus, some say, came back.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YdFmsURncFg
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