James Walton #107 Blow your trumpet, Gabriel

The wind here peels skin

hones out the truth

birds stall in the veracity of physics

dogs smile after farting

knowing the full irony

of a mad obligation

last night I dreamed

of the mounted police charge

that long leap at Olympic Park

the final tide of conservatism

washed away we thought

leaving the river turned out

stench of mud howling condoms

dried out take aways

look to the south west

where the clouds churn for hail

prepare to scrape calcium

make cheek bones of panther

the unbroken gather there

an exhibition curated

by a jigsaw of lives

survivors of age and penury

and the small people

flecked at by society’s tail

smile at what they can

Government should fear us

not the fleeing immigrant

one day a gentler hand

may arrange the pieces

patch the dreamy enamels

float the bottle into each House

rub the sides in new earnest

whisper a downpour of votes

if you stand into the gale

all it takes is breath