Recycled#2: Gross Expectations

loo queue; glastonbury

By Simon Godley

Gross Expectations

Eloise hoisted open the flimsy door and paused on the threshold, screwing up her nose and holding onto the urge to vomit. Somebody already had, it seemed, and she surveyed the cramped and stinking landscape with a tactical eye. How to accomplish the necessary without acquiring more sewage than she was hoping to leave behind? Not for the first time, Eloise wished Glastonbury had a Business Class section.

©suzanne conboy-hill 2009

Climbing for Jesus

Stained glass at St John the Baptist's Anglica...

Image via Wikipedia

Climbing for Jesus

I went

Up Pen-y-Ghent

I was spent

Dumb wit!

A fool

From Sunday School

A mule

For Christ

There was a fox and

Horses’ hocks

Up there on the rocks

No shit!

Stupid boots

Catholic roots

Home to roost

In wet tights

Aren’t they all bent,

Hunters of souls’ rent?

Tally ho

I went

©suzanne conboy-hill 2011

Pen-y-Ghent is a fell in the Yorkshire Dales. This happened. Even the fox.

Philosopher Stoned

A scattering of "brilliant" cut diam...

Image via Wikipedia

Philosopher Stoned

He is brazenly, brilliantly, brassed off by the polished politics of the righteous right.

He heats arguments on pupils bright as buttons of molten jet in eyes alive with intellectual trickery.

He rolls concepts and ideas over the strop of his tongue like globules of mercury, loosed from the tedium of measurement.

His love of chase is betrayed by tiny garnet blushes on nose and cheeks; cooing infants to his icy fire of victory.

He scrubs the thoughts of neophytes with the steel wool of Socratic questioning.

Deftly iterating incantations of hegemonies, he hides exquisite diamond cuts in the woollen clouds of distracting verbiage.

He wears iron filings on his chin and calls them his beard; a professorial promulgation of proletarianism.

His wisdom does not come in glossy spheres to be cast before swine, but in the weft and warp of knit-one-purl-one patchwork blankets of the Workers’ Struggle.

Ideas settle like wise moths in the old, gold grail of his ancient and modern mind, to feed on dusty nets of idealism.

Like neglected and slowly rusting scaffolding, his body is there only to house the sapphiric laser of his intellect.

He chisels and chips at the coal face of complexity, mining for perpetuity in the legacy of runes.

©suzanne conboy-hill 2011