Flowers
I think about flowers, a lot.
They’re so alien to our world.
But really, we’re just living in their world.
Observers and thieves.
Filthy Flora
Mother nature, the madam of a pollen filled whore house.
The shapes you form, the nectar that oozes.
Thrust under our noses, tied with a ribbon, pornographic perfection.
Garden child
My garden has grown,
now a fat and happy child.
The Purpurea’s flowers,
are the glowing callow cheeks.
It has been raining.
Water logged Nasturtium leaves,
like cups of lime cordial.
I see lots of things that I want to tell you about
I was hosing the garden the other day and the water from the hose sprayed across that patch of flowers that we agreed reminded us of the beach.
Bees must have been having a meeting of some kind amongst those flowers, for the water disturbed them causing them to fly away.
They flew past next door neighbours cat who was sitting on the roof and he meowed at them as they buzzed by.
