Looking for Daisies

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In hidden meadows; that are intertwined together as jewelled pearls flowering in a rose bush: that stands                     floppy; and still as a sunrise: that                                 yellows in the circles of auburn crimson.                       Green, shrubbery leaves;                                                 that stand in a sunflower-tipped bed; of                           chocolate-tinged posies; and bluebells red, and love-kissed, like valentines:                                                             and meringue: baby-blue carded roses that                           flower away from the rest;                                                in a little garden,                                                           by a black; painted gate: that                                             closes off to the blue sky, and the felt-tip clouds: and the  night-time moon: that seals the snow globe:                       of flowers; in a play pen; of                                                 gold and coloured pens.

In the sketches of the blue sky;                                       and the arching rainbow, that reaches for the chocolate-flavoured, gold tone of the melting pot;                                that flames and tints; in the green eye,                               Of the gold coins; that, greedy:                                      drink from a spilling fountain tap:                                        That seethes in boiling bubbles;                                         over its human hand;                                                     that curls a dirty nail; curved, sinewy;                              And bronze                                                                      in the steaming sunlight.  
It ‘ouches’ as its red welt;                                           curses over the creamed skin:                                           in a gold-coloured; liquid shape; That                               slimes over the cooling: bared fist.

In the dream-like scenery: that closes the frame with a romantic gate; and a                                                     bridge of May,                                                            Stark, wooden beams form an architecture of train-tracked buildings; that wither and weep:                                         In the haze of May;                                                          in the red and pink love blooms: that tie a bow around spring; and call for the tune of Summer:                                        to play its harps; and birth to magic;                                  that blossoms in the bloodied shades of the sun.
A bare ankle; twisted in the                                             darkened tones of the wispy clouds;                                finds its feet, and lands;                                             Amidst the tangled reeds of the grass; and is tickled               by a bud of daisies: closed in like the fist,                        That sleeps, abandoned; in the squelching mud;                    in the boom and taunts of the sun.      

The crooked limb; becomes curious, in its flowered wasteland; and twists, to see its eye-flashed picture,                          that lies in a bed of new daises;                                           That do not know what to do in the arena                          that blows and flames; together: gently, gently,                     In the industrial waste, of the burning maze; of the litter and paper, and the rain.                           

The daisies, sprung into human hands; screaming,                 and reaching, like the pink of a newborn.
In the metal-backed benches, creeps a pair of feet,                 A squelch of new boots;                                                       Who is lit up in the brown, wholesomeness of the watered soil; that spills over the earth, like half-flying worms;                     who eat the daises, they do not know what else to do.
The stamped feet, are headed to the crescent-shaped river; and the cobbled bridge,                                               When, in all the deadened life of the leaves; and autumn’s cruel descent into spring;                                                     Thinks it will stop, to see some daisies; that lie in a patch of ice and cream.                                                                  

The hands: curled, and filled with unnatural rings; bend down and push the daises;                                                      Into a rusted, creaking water-hole; and leaves it amongst the reeds; and the moulded, crab-ridden slime; and lets it open its tin-can mouth; and kiss, kiss: the crying mud: the renewed water;                                                                                                                                                              That blinks in stars of tear drops, That trail down to the oxygen-thirsted compost,                                               That execrates its old forebears, Who line up in a green-hedged crown;

That settles down;                                                             That consumes the faded human note;                             That                                                                                 reads it                                                                          is…Looking for daises .






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