Bloody hell why should such beauty of a garden be Oozing peace in photos but punishingly perspiring in the flesh Trickling pearls of salt to water the gasping ground only for the Assault to be gutted by the first sight of black swans too unbothered Nauseatingly precious their necks curled like questions only to be Impaled on the afternoon’s rotisserie slowly baking their already Charred feathers while they ponder the fatalism of
Gracefully decaying in this tiny miserable pond every inhale Anointed by the vinegary tang of pores fermenting in human brine Resting never arrives in the steady percussion of shutters and shrieks Delighting of course in the gourmet offerings of half-chewed bread as the days Ease into weeks into months into years into feathers falling into nothing Nestling into the idea that today might be the day to Serenely uncurl the question of how these slow-marinated people taste