Between the idea and the afternoon falls the blue
& bluer still are the wings of my deckchair
as I contemplate the Grand Prix of curious
emotions that flow from the self sacrifice
of six coffees before anything solid.
I will write a hymn to the flies!
The heat does wicked things to my fashion sense,
my fashion sense does wicked things to passers by,
the passers by all go to the beach
when the noses come out in baby pink
and the midriffs gleam like desert gold.
O caravan parks! O mister Whippy!
The leaves of my favourite tree are soon
to burst into flames, vote independent,
talk seriously about childcare.
Let the angels of loquaciousness write novels
without sin or merit, let the former dirty realists
let their hair down and admit to sponge cake
administered from fine china in terrace houses.
When it cools down, the vacuum cleaner and I
will dance and dance and dance and dance.
Napolipoesia, 2001.