Odyssey of the Fly, Poetry
New Pitsligo, 2016
Up north past Ironfield, the Blackdog Rifle Range,
Trump’s pompous golf course for unhappy millionaires
and the unassuming limbo of Old Deer,
there’s an hexagonal diner with a view;
solid green blocks the windows on 5 sides,
the place is a tree-house lodged in the canopy.
The patrons seem to know each other,
red and blue lights hang from black pipes,
a middle aged hippie woman sits next to me,
crosses one leg over another,
welcomes us and takes our order.
She works here, apparently.
A wind-up gramophone and an electric organ
sit patiently in separate corners of the room.
Spirit in the sky‘ plays in the sound system,
sound running parallel to laughter
and the rattling of toy train wheels
against toy train tracks.
A red LED sign repeating:
How on earth will I find you
when all my searching is done

… out of this world, you remind me,
there are more worlds where this one came from.
A cuckoo clock chimes.
I feel I am inside the mind of Ivor Cutler
or in the waiting room of some pleasant dream.
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