They told us cold milk was the blood of angels
it was during the Tokyo Olympics.
Our knees froze together in the morning
this was good discipline for us,
God knows there were people suffering.
And last night I cuffed the moon
tried to pull it down into the lounge,
a lever with a button dial an old typewriter key;
the one pin ball machine in the corner shop
awkwardly sited, so your bum was pressed
up against the ice cream cabinet.
This morning at 3.33 the logging trucks
began their inexorable mathematics
unchallenged by the forward hour,
of the lost Third Theory of Relativity.
At 4.33 fully loaded in return
they pass each other one empty one full,
drop the high beam of simultaneous orbit.
Four into sixty minutes the pod surfacing,
and all day the narwhal song of slowing -
for the curves as the air breaks hiss and moan
into the mechanics of physical impasse.
The dry road is a rage of cosmic dust;
it is never returned that hour multiplying each day
out of your reach when the clock is turned back,
a stammer lurks behind the pendulum.
The Guff full past reckoning as the rings of Saturn
clasp in acolyte formation waiting for the knock.
Now the years circle in a pack, nappies become Degrees;
who dares to raise the innocent sacrifice
shout out we can progress no more?
Beyond the incessant rapping someone is singing
Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow.