Boppin' at the Porters' Do,
Dai Funk stood handstand freely,
flashing flickers of flames
across the cold, white stonewaxed floor.

Beside him, Hopeful raged at dragons,
wiping the dust of noose-necked women
woven delicately within the silver cotton staircase.

Their eyes reached up no more.

Dai gorged long on golden liquid stews,
potting subtle strands of torment
in the side of Hopeful's brain.

They were boppin' at the Porters' Do,
boppin' wild and silly.

Hopeful became lost in the blizzard of sound,
the dragon teased his mind
and held forth the promise of God,
and Dai fell back into the vermilion dustbowl
screaming mace-like at the wall.

Now clear liquids they drank,
singing, falling from the mirrors,
throwing dreams plucked random from the rain.

Bright berry- torch buds, bleached and Mayo,
burned in cat-legged fury and strained.
Shirt leaves wandered, cattle flags wondered
and Dai and Hopeful bopped bippety-bop
like they never bopped before.

Out of the cage, their minds, all things simple,
Dai and Hopeful walked, eyes raised once more,
a tortured maze of gardens
and postage stamp bleedings,
brightly buried in silver
and velvet charms of those of other men.

Dai flicked a watery wheelbase,
wild and woolly headed, (bleached and Mayo also),
stared the farmer at the snow.

Dai Funk whispered soft the feathered catchment,
pushed forward to the pavement
a heart in Assam gently blended.

Roughly Hopeful sprayed the weeds,
head bent searching, sparkly in the moonlight.
Hush the clouds. dreamo mondo child.

I canabalised this poem for part of a story called The Moonrug Photograph.

you can now hear this poem as God intended it to be heard

oh yeah