Dreaming Volumes
Hardy snorts the glacial air;
finds morning’s first brew prosaic.
Last night’s jottings petered out,
leaving his middle ear in two minds.
No good harping on with old hats
or yesterday’s retro headlines.
Those flash new chaps with their
clever tunes make his eyes water.
He storms out to the sycamore
with his latest missive &
bellows at shit faced poets, once
earmarked, now passed over on
half rations—he watches neurotic
followers change latitude.
Getting down to business,
he quickly strips, kneels at his
own slab and dashes his brains
out while laughing maniacally.
Sleepy cows yawn— pissing
lukewarm tankards in the wind.
New starlings titter overhead.
©️Orion Foote, 2022
Visions of Orion Poetry 