The Hunt

Gather for the hunt:
everything is want:
creditors to pay –
predators and prey –

trembling in the shade.
The viper must be paid.
The angel must be harnessed.
The image must be varnished

to a fine fat gloss.
Too much rhymes with loss.
Spin jives with win.
Throw it in the bin.

Silly humans trying
to pretend they are flying
in the void:
that flick by Harold Lloyd:

hanging off a clock.
Slick-sick tick-tock
rumbles through the loins –
venereally joins

to a last goodbye.
Promulgate a sigh.
Wave your waning hand.
Say it wasn’t grand.


 
 
 
 
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