These kettle bells.
Is it the axe-murderer,
with green garbage bag
in the shadows?
No. Green trees so thick
their tops are folded hands
or knotted knuckles
to make perilous shrubbery
by the garden wall.
Yet this is a state of mind
and shards of multi-coloured
glass dot the top of stones.
Interesting. Should a sociopath put
out his shingle, come calling,
a much under-estimated, rude uttering
would take place.
Still bees are active in the night air,
not swarms, but a hum. Pleasant odours waft
thru stiller air. There is no charged electricity
to things, no tautness or leathery tightness to
individual seconds. Still and stricken still.
Yet "what ifs" come slithering
as if serpents along
a pasture floor.
The diabolical. Rich desire to impregnate with evil,
To embarcation upon conquests.
To embolden and make one's mark,
however ridiculous to the sane and balanced mind.
Horrible. The dirty laundry of just one
over-flowering and too abundant mind gone wrong.
One single blossom out of place and "killer".
Off-kilter. Out of whack. The
pickle short of a jar syndrome.
Then there's the hoots and shrill cat-calls
withered by horse laughs. Guffaws with tattoos and
rifle-butts.
Laid back "good ole boys" type of humour going wrong
soured by too many visits and skunky beers from the
Orchid Lounge.
Rinky-dink, honky-tonk. Dotting the landscape with worn,
thin cars, trouser legs piled up, the "f" and "s" words.
Charivari. A timely entry. A buzz set to sound, a faint
blinking button with no sound. Suckers in the creek
breaking water to catch flies, churning mud bottom
by their too turbulent tails; a bird hitting the window
only its night. The echo of moths lost to the stars
with each jarring knock.