Ornamental William Golding Glimmmers in Void
Pretty, pretty hermit
In the compost heap
Who could ever fathom
Half the depths of sleep?
Who could reckon kisses?
Osculations cheap?
Hollow, hollow verses
Spinning through the void
Who could ever scan them?
Where is skill deployed?
Who could count the spaces?
Which we must avoid?
Motley, motley wormcasts
Oozing from the mire
Who compos'd their anthem
For the charismatic choir
Who could scry the masses?
Who could spot the spire?
Tiny, tiny candle
Halfway down my throat
Who gave you the rhythm?
Who taught you to float?
Who could stand the spices?
Who knows where to vote?
Slender, slender margin
In the notebooks of the rich
Who invented Autumn?
Who has queered the pitch?
Who can square the forces
Wielded by the stubborn witch
Tawdry, tawdry mistress,
Limp and half-aware
There you go all hallowed,
And still the crowd all stare
Counting wins as losses
Tossing caution to the wind,
And though the crowd knows how you've sinned, it really doesn't care.
| Contributors: | Roland, Bop, P, TG, KD, Stacy. |
| Poem finished: | 27th September 1997. |