(I don’t know about you but…)
all my
best lines
come unbidden
down from
‘e or she – the (fr)antic muse
fucking around a-
gain while I drowse –
having happy splashy playtimes
in the paddling pool of meaning.
Jerk awake, I
know what’s next
lest brilliance disappear, un-
moor from my pier, it
near-ly drives
one to
pen some
questionable half-done rhymes.
Resist? I try,
stow that stationery I cry
the world
unkempt as it is,
verities all at sea,
won’t welcome
your trippy lines when
x and y still end in
z
Image: Alf Stanbrough supports Bonnie Nixon and Hazel with Wal Balmus on top; Jack Goldberg observes, Bondi Beach, Sydney, Australia, 25 Sept 1938. George Caddy Photographer, c/- State Library of NSW on Flickr.
16 Apr. 20.
Even more silliness – (coz it’s too cold to bake bread this morning).
And today’s music for better poetry is Steve Reich’s Music for 18 musicians.
Peter Frankis writes 
And I love your silliness. Go bake some bread. It’s therapeutic. And tasty.
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A bit chilly this morning- and the dough isn’t rising – gak!
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Proving dough: turn your oven on for exactly one minute, then turn it off. Touch the oven rack – you should be able to hold on to the rack comfortably (warm not hot). Now pop your form/tin/dough in the oven and close the door. You have a warm, draft-free place for your dough to rise.
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Ha. I’ll give it a try (the weather’s definitely turning here) Many thanks.
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I have no questions, Peter. Joy (a) rising from dreams (b) rings out happiness for your readers, like me. And for a moment, we can forget the virus all at (c). My apologies.
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