I’m flying back
into Tuebingen airspace.
I’m ready for Swabian girls of lace.
That’s what makes my pulse race:
the ancient tales of flights of fancy,
the brains of grace,
the gruesome face of an ugly race,
hideous bands under my wheels.
My glowing undercarriage
simply lances
through
all the tempestuous skies
to greet my ascending loves,
the dashing ways,
and blades
of ancient grass,
with blossoming songs
skirting the hurtling runways;
bang of memory,
death of lovely moments
on the tip of my very tongue.
O Mick I miss you so,
O Julia,
O Jack the Lad.
I will recall you all ways,
your twinkling faces
as I stagger along,
in my typical afternoon drunkenness,
past all,
past all the closed bars,
the volcanic ash
of long lost poems
spat out
on dreadful floors
into the ears
of ignorant barmaids
and boring old guys
with nothing to do
but remember.
That won’t happen to me.
Because I run,
across your fallen dust,
exploding,
like a proud volcano,
with the boiling lava
of brand new verse.
Run and run and run
with a fresh joy,
a new life
every day.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
