Posturing Buffoon
The lumps in the porridge,
like the elusive sock thief.
A mysterious heart cabbage
of childish unbelief.
Gardens with rows of egg paint,
ready to garner bland walls
with insignificant hand wash, faint
and as cold as tasteless melon balls.
The notes dancing across the page
on railway lines of quintessence,
making atmosphere of a different age
on tables of keyless innocence.
Splodges of colour on board,
that mix to the mud of time,
satisfies the gullible hoard
who crow their love of slime.
Then the rocks with lumps off,
strata fissured through with ice cream
flavoured by flakes of spilled dandruff,
engorging slime lovers’ ears with steam.
Posturing buffoon tall luvvies,
without a cell to satisfy,
the sun seeking smeared chubbies
bloated absentees from therapy.
At last the ink dotted spider,
leaving its tempting trail of code,
on the ski slope of cider,
pushed on to the blank road.
© David L Atkinson February 2016
