Colin F. Jones

THOUGHT QUAKES

Thought quakes most dreadful, ravage at my brow,
I cannot seem to sleep; I’m still clinging to the plough,
That is entrenching deep furrows, in a nasty curve,
As the horses slowly tiring begin to falter and to swerve.
When it’s time to drop the seeds in, I use a dropper bent
Behind a crooked horse, from a crooked farmer lent
And they germinate in circles like a spinning wheel,
With black suited gamblers, betting on a crooked deal.
When it’s time for splitting, the results of all that toil,
I find I’m picking up handfuls of sweet smelling soil.
There’s bones in it and bits of hair, harness straps as well,
And buttercups and daisies growing out of hell.
And though you think I’m crazy (I know I bloody am)
You can file off the corners and the rest you can jam.