This poem first appeared in Issue Six of Tincture Journal, available for purchase here.
This cicada season,
Yawning lawns think they’re hay, all
my daylight savings have been stolen
by a fraudulent river.
Libraries close, vacate in vacation as
small balls bounce on TV. My bicycle trammels
the surquedry of fowl our whispers
are ships scrambling onto rhythms of wind.
We sail towards failure
where songs are condign.
There’s the belly laugh
as certainty slips on that time-honoured banana.
Comic is the last grace, the science of otiosity high
distinction at the edge of our extinction.
Why do I keep stuffing up?
The last speciality, an incontinence of deed
that’s in our seed, the DNA.
Do Not Attribute
music is in the skipped beats
what’s-his-name drops his fame
the volume shrinks
the less we think.
Over thirty-five years Les Wicks has performed at festivals, schools, prison etc., and has been published in over 250 different magazines, anthologies and newspapers across eighteen countries in ten languages. He conducts workshops and runs Meuse Press which focuses on poetry outreach projects like poetry on buses and poetry published on the surface of a river. His eleventh book of poetry is Sea of Heartbeak (Unexpected Resilience) (Puncher & Wattmann, 2013).