Lundinionensis

Smashed-noggin-early-morning gray sky weeping periodically,

Harder and softer depending on heaven's heartbreak on account of the

Feast of Hagios Patrikios. 

Pants heavy with rain and regret, gut heavy with malt and poppy,

Mind errant, tongue dormant,

Passing through a gallery of

Portraits, avoiding the puddles

on a walk through the park,

All just to retreat from the shadow of

royalty onto streets with babbling

Italics toting bags of adoration in

nice boots and slicks and belts and buckles.

Foam residue fizzes into the unseen ether,

(birth of Love, whipping upon the shore)

Like all the magnificent notions

I have ever thought to put to paper

But instead have always forgotten, 

Every moment is an epoch of mystery.

I gaze in awe how the truth is closed,

inevitably,

On one side of the pond or the other,

To all who openly seek it.

Those in The Know see it spoken in silence,

Hear it pattering in empty side-streets,

traveling on the cobblestones 

Soaked in the shells of joyous shouts

Lingering from the night before,

vague memories of speech lost

to the fog of the city and its hives of minds.

It takes a certain type - not even they know that.

The queen in her elaborate prison of golden-gated majesty,

she knows it not the least,

the Scot at the Arms, yes,

he had it in spades,

I recall telling myself,

as the park spouted it in daffodils in blossom

while I rushed on by to incorporate

wisdom from flesh and carrots,

my ears deafened by the roar of clouds, 

Offering reprieve from the warmth 

That is Sol to undercooked bones. 

And so the logical conclusion:

Bottles and bottles in

glasses on counters

over crushed butts

and wads of wet exhaustion,

repeat ad nauseum. 

I am not sure I was made for the bustle,

not cut from the cloth of the hustle,

resizing my portions

to absorb all the bricks of the buildings

I wish I had been.