It was a slow motion afternoon
A bubble in suburbia of
flying teapots and stars
as he, I don’t know,
showed me how to make hash brownies
and couscous
whilst Gong gonged a gong

There were laughs
rocking back not far
not much air expelled
a gentle squeezing of looks
future lines sketched childlike
with a found freedom
we wrapped in stretched mohair

Oh! Bong-0h!
We really didn’t have any dreams
And we didn’t want any dreams
And we didn’t know why
dreams could die.
Or how.
Or when.

Tigger watched
as cars zoomed circular
perp-en-dic-u-lar
in front of Auntie She
diss-a-prov-ing-ly
she soup sucked up
the hours.

Who-he should imagine we died
when I left, closed the door,
or I took him home
In my knees, gentle-like
wishing the table scratch
wouldn’t matter or chime a
life, time of eyes smiling.

In memory of Daevid Allen.
His music played a massive moment and resounding emotion in my life. Respect the Gnomes.