Daily Times

That bolus that stuck
ringed in my breath-pipe
that misery that muck
scattered me like tripe

on a nude day
spent lying in the solarium
and nothing to pay
except the die-hard solatium

that the invertebrate needs
and love too soon hopes
spent wasting in distant meads
twisted in tiring ropes

again and again
the trumpet sounds
to herald the bane
of white skulls in mounds

a caveat, a caveat;
a union, a fusion
too soon, to part
all in a hopeless illusion

But they will again
come cantering in
in vain, in vain
nor heed my mind’s din

meanwhile, in my breath-pipe
I find irretrievably stuck
scattering me like tripe
love, that muck