Goodfellow’s Version
written by: Steven Fortune
I
‘Athens…’
If I could pan your posture
through the silken wafer threads
of your pink sarong
like the golden promise of a loded west
I would sow beneath my bitten toenails
your resplendent grains and abstain
from our games of aberration
and allow a light to trip and kindle in my cuticles
sparking a spaghetti revolution of vines
underneath my soles and over
an apparent dew of flavour
on my clamdigger legs
feeding bloom and corresponding gluttony
upon the modest height my masculinity
so urgently esteems
as the dew upon my skin is stretched
to flood from drop
in the name of a lunar forest dame
and the summer lunacy
she playfully politically parades
II
‘…and a wood near it.’
I am conscious of the mysteries
atrocities ceremonies improbabilities
among the consequences in the queue
to pursue liquid matter down the necks
of living things and yet
I would forsake the dry certainties of distillation
assent to the chemical enigmas
and drink from the naked chalice of your charisma
and wonder whether my intake be water-rapid
syrup-paced or cake batter-casual
ere it circumvents schools of systems and cells
touching down in my hub of logic
for a fairytale respite and a call
to an ill-starred couple for a visit
with regards from a garden wall
too tall for romance itself
never mind my hermetic sirrah’s height
and so ambrosially green to absorb and quench
that which my throat implored
to propose to my right mind
The puberty of fantasy
for the retroaction of reality
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