Grazing Dinosaurs. For Shame

See here.  She moves
like something's missing, like in a dream
of things primordial, long-tailed scooted dinosaurs
that skulk around the bushes.  Shame.

To wonder why the next who speaks
repeats the thing you said, recieves
the gentle laugh.  To think
to chit-chat.
Just be content
that no-one speaks and swinging
tails of horseshoe crabs avoid
your legs.

Out there the whales collide with ships, the kraken
dance.  My love whose ears are just like shells,
I hear the ocean pressed against them, knows.
The fairies hate a liar and a thief.

My love whose eyes are alabaster knows.

You've plumped up
like a dumpling, firm and ragged.  Look at me
when you speak.  You asked if
there were rules to being real.

She moves like in a nightmare of the England
overrun by wolves.  So let
the forest have her, if it comes
to that.  For shame.

The eight-foot terror-cranes once strode tall
the savanna, snatching
horses.  The name
that many races call themselves
is "only people".

My love is this:
someone who lies about all day
in peace, on cushions, whose eyes
are alabaster, whose ears
hear only sea.  My love
holds water.  My love
can stare and stare as something
makes the noise of ten excited crowds
outside our door.

You are a walker.
Ragged shoes and hobnailed
feet and toes clawed
like a raptor, but arms
as far from graceful, noble wings as steel
is far from cardboard in
the road, and tracked
with mud-soaked
treads.

Tired and with pupils
spread like dull and rusty pans.
She stays awake that time
that could be any day.  Why can you not
be like the rest, who chit-chat?

It's just
like talking to a syphilitic.
No taste in clothes.
No sense
of urgency.
(God gave that to a flea!)

The fairies in the corners glare
with all the hate they have for mortal folk.
Milk curdles in your place,
things move and letters from your words go
missing.

Be real and true or things go badly.

Shame.