They told me
my little writing space
was funky
not referring to the silver ring collection
deaths heads, skulls
a fine Lakota war bonnet
hanging on a phrenology bust
anthology of music from the centuries
I’ve lived, loved
wooden bows from around the world
arrows from junk shops
plastic bags of googly eyes
I put on adverts, pictures
to subvert images
parade of biker mementos from M.C’s
seeds in paper bags
just in case I feel green fingered
the over flowing wine rack
brandy from Spain
red wines from France
moonshine from a man on a hill in Devon
skull filled with tincture to kill cancer before
it even begins
wooden wine boxes from Nicolas in Paris
gifted by the wine rep in gratitude
the other from Corbiere bought at the Cave
shelves stuffed with knik knaks too poor
to even give away
but much too good to throw
the gather of tools with which they expect
that I can fix everything, anything
in the house
this ancient PC I put the words into rows
one letter at a time
none of this
funky today
refers to the old man farts
I’ve been in here too long
they want me out in the sunshine
while they open the window
for a change of air


One thought on “funky

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