Gateways and Colourways

I’ll meet you under the monkey puzzle tree

and we can drink a can or two

smoke some weed, draw the world

then paint it by our own invented numbers.

I think we should spray-paint

the pampas grass this year, bright purple

to clash with the schemes of these houses

I detest that everything is colour co-ordinated

in this part of town.

I remember that time when we swapped

all the front gates around, and in the morning

they all came out dressed in their designer daywear;

speechless as in horror show,

bewildered as in scratching their heads and their arses.

But at least they actually talked to each other,

albeit meaningless dribble; lawns and weather,

haute couture mannequin expressions,

and can I have my gate back please,

sorry, and thank you,

and so very nice to meet you at last.

I still don’t see why they had to phone

those silly boys in blue, no one was harmed

and nothing was damaged.

So what if we unhinged a few gateways

onto different horizons,

we weren't the ones promising false yellow.

We glitter; discarded sequins snagged

on the white nylon lace frou frou of suburbia.

So God bless the Queen,

the neat green hedges, the Daily Mail

and the pretty pink maids all in a row.

From the best china service

ladies that lunch sip magnolia opinions

(do have another slice of angel cake)

never mentioning the home-made

Shakespearian dramas,

or the empty milkbottles stranded on doorsteps

with castaway messages beginning:
‘to my darling milkman’.

© 2007 P.A.Levy

First published by Open Wide Magazine 2010