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sitting naked x-legged on the grass
within the sound of rushing water
attempting to summon the shade
of Samuel Taylor Coleridge,
beyond the rhymes interrupted by
a person on business from Porlock,
sitting naked x-legged on the grass
feeling the sunshine creep my skin
attempting to conjure the shade
of Tristan Tzara
in the 1916 Cabaret Voltaire
viewing insurrection against war
and the nationalist insanity
through the lens of his monocle,
sitting naked x-legged on the grass
distracted by the red flying bug
as I attempt to manifest the shade
of Allen Ginsberg
putting our non-binary shoulder
to the poetic wheel, and shoving
it further…

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ANDREW DARLINGTON

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