What will become of us?
Rust, an old bike not used for years but it appears to have been BMX-posed to whether or not the rot of its frame can really refrain
from being towed away into the vacant grey of some depot, where leaving leaves might rise to its waist, what a waste
—such a waste.
What will? Become of us, sweet little will; only there can the fanfare dare to evade, the almighty escapade: God and people, roaming a heavenly field together
to feel, together
What? Will became of us? Born of that dust and rust but no diamonds, to pry on, to keep a sneaky little fucking eye on;
fly on, little whisper, over the edge of the wind and into the woe
where there might be thunder, or snow and the directions will cease
to know where to go,
be-cause, there and then, only here and now and everyone seems to be asking how?
But what must become of us?
The daily coffee grind, in between which a master might find
a slave inside,
or a pastor might find
that he’s actually a pastry, filled with vegetables;
who’d have thought?
If ‘what’ were to become of ‘us’ then what is it, exactly, that would be coming?
Will what became of us become what becomes of us?
or perhaps what we will, will be coming, whether we will it or woe-n’t, it,
whether or not we came of it, or were simply born anew of ‘us’,
it’s never really enough, is it?
to live it, bigot
silly swollen sausage on the corner, i’n’it?
What could possible become of us?
when, when the moments fail, we have learnt to both inhale
the air, finally, won’t be so stale
and on that day there will be more than one letter in the mail
because in a circle, letters and words travel freely
and the postman is the person sending you the mail
and on the off day, where and when therearises that sterile grey,
the circle, round and plump, will say
look what has become of us
we are all work
and no play.