Banging on a Drum

How do you do I’m a poem

I jingle when I walk

And sweat calliopes of salt

As the metaphors begin to boil

And the words crash into one another

Describing sand. There is a club for this

And a punch to the belly

We live in an age of nincompoops

The mouth pleads for an amiable nose

And gets a sunrise instead

But that’s ok I like the feeling of light

Falling on a punctuation of hills

As the great engine of Bach

Makes the gears and wheels move

The peremptory provocations of age

Permit me to say things

Behind the garage

They say time is money

I say time is a sequined dragon

In a milieu of hallucination

Called language

An apparition washes over me

Like a spot of grease

Redolent of beautiful gloom

Sir John Falstaff arrives in a Cadillac

And takes us the rest of the way

To the frontier of the mind

Which is a mecca for nonsense

What else can you do

But plunge into life

And when death comes

Crawl into a cocoon

It’s fun and intensely athletic

To let yourself go

If this were a song it would sound like water

But it’s not it’s a pool of blood

Banging on a drum