Absolutely Miles Away …too many clouds, too little time…

hazed up downward

maybe you’ll lie
alarmed and white, undecided
while shadows of daylight lifelines
play xylophone concertos from the beyond
trying to find an echo of trouble
in amongst the landslipped rubble
as the hazy green fairy steals your currency
trade only in well-trodden dreams.
sleep soothing circles the arms of absynthia
come morning, this wormwood mist may rise.

poetikal appreesiayshun by an unbeleevabel witless, aged six and three quorta bits:

- I love the way the middle two lines rhyme;
- I adore the sibilance of “sleep soothing circles the arms of absynthia, so much so that I keep saying it under my breath;
- Erm, I know nothing more about poetry;
- That is all.

I like saying wormwood. Wormwood. It makes your mouth feel good.

Oh… I would like to hear xylophone concertos, whether from the beyond, or from the stage. It would be very cheerful, I think.

Mr. Witness: I’m fairly sure critics who know about sibilance are of more substantial years than six and three quorta bits. Or the accidental spelling of appreciation you appear to have stubled across. If only more six and three quarter-bit year olds were more literate…

Ani: Do you find it tastes better in speech than it does infused amongst imbibed liquids?

Bohémienne: xylophones, glockenspiels (how wonderful a word is glockenspiel, plus its little tinkly sound!), marimbas and perhaps some foreboding timpani just in case things got a little too jolly?