There’s holes in my bucket,
Dear Liza.
Pygmalion Complex ablaze –
Turn me from parody,
To Victorian Noble.
Lumberjack becomes most prolific poet.
Or is it packs of lies,
Divorced from literal reality?
Spilling through rusted cracks,
Or holes.
Fate of many an old wheelbarrow;
Like us.
Moved entire cliffsides,
With a shovel of dirt.
Adding metres to the bank,
So I’d have a little garden plot –
Of my very own.
For sunflowers.
Clearly something struck a chord –
From what we carved in marble.
Except our mediums were steel,
& wood.
Greek Sculptors Be Damned.
Victorians damned,
Writing plays,
About little cockney flower girls,
Who’re forever changed with masking.
Physical or metaphysical.
“Goddess Of A Thousand Masks.”
Remember?
“Playing Pretend.”
“The Lies We Tell Ourselves.”
“The Lies We Tell To Others.”
Fragments of ancient work.
Archaic witchcraft,
Hidden in poems.
Oh Liza,
Dear Liza,
Made you again.
My Fair Lady.
Old Play.
New Age.
Modern Era,
If Century can be considered modern.
Us older folk witches,
Still roam woods –
On chicken legs,
After all.
Objectives?
All this black magic,
Fiction,
Supervillainy,
Metaphor,
Humanist Utopia.
No More.
No Less.
Greek Sculptors Be Damned.
