Litter and Birdsong

All nature’s cycles vitally by purgings go around
But men’s;
Even a dog’s pooh wishes well the ocean beds
Pressed out of the earth we came, our litter likewise parades
In our own image
To straiten, strew, the streets uncouth-like, slatternly
Where fare bright spindliest flower-shows brightly-weeding walls
Also, here what we call
Vermin careering wild alive through life and joyous –
All’s goodness notwithstanding;

Bar man’s self-like reflections littering gutter kerbs
Serving up back to us our loose-tendentious days
That mock kind nature;
Old scratchcards scratched discarded forlorn hopes
Mires of the mind on streets – inverse of paved with gold –
Dick Whittington’s old scam

Under a flowered treetop’s bending leaves
Upsurging in its eminence, and despite of trash;
Stands aspiring ‘making a go of it’ as people say, its spread,
A subject of attrition suffering needless scathe
Revelled in day and night across polluted town
Incessant as its ever-restless mills
Of constant traffic; cars, lorries, idlers, squads
Of drunken vagrant lags; yet bearing all
And flowers too, trees boast
Sat sweetly singing singers- simple birds

Whose rounds and lullabies are seldom caught
On ears upgeared to melees, babels of combustion
Which seek to fake right order out of self-made mires –
Against their schemes of things – nor yet
Might inklings enter in that valiant estimation
To put to rights by countermand, recension,
Their contrary attune to psychic beaten paths
En route to penitentiaries prognosticated,
And signalled by unsightly blights of litter; feed galore
For sweepers, binmen; their everlasting spreads
Man scatters where he does not gather; that one talent
Cause for dismay and everywhere self-evident

In the towns the crowns of lownds ride Ferris wheels,
A merry-go-twerking feckless who lasciviously
Close come-ons drawing-on wall-eyed
Their outward visions tunnel-blind and photoshopped
Unnoted is what bird, what throstle, sings,
(All’s hers which brings it brightly to our ears)

Commuted, muted, dud, these hydrocarbon buccaneers
And queenly lobsters parsing fingernails
With hairbrush as an airbrush as the gear
To screenwipe off a consciousness the upper world
Outside oneself; – yet health, and corny colour –
Kept Yakulted and browned by walk–in beds; fulfil
With sickly bling, their silly heads, no contravention
Admit, complacent to the gills; enamour’s thrills
The normal serving, missing, missed
What beauty natural living things observe,
Replenishing sensation (properly so-called) which urban loss
Cursed, crossed, assassinated, sent to sea, whitewashed,
Preferring on a plate conveniences
And going round and round insouciances
Unknowing and unknown in nature’s nomenclature,

Browse there insurged spent litters, plastics, manufactures lately dead,
Survived by, superseded of, yet more
Dead plastics, manufactures lately fed
To counteract drear glooms; to facial pokey rooms
Until the darkness come again down-low and lowers –
Then – lay new floors – pursue the malls –
In ever-fluid course
For packs, and staunches,
On leaks of emptiness inroading basement woes
Where liturgy supplies its timor mortis; here’s the door
Is ever set ajar; and seeking to inhume
With a Harpy’s grin. Against men’s mortal glees
Fate slinks with corporeal coils
Happy to prowl and gather to her dusts
Whether from living rooms or other feathered nests
Of weary-whiled style lives

And yet there thrives despite, a lovely mirrored light;
Amain a natural world nurtures, projects, proclaims
Emblems of pledge and promise from a realty non-compeer
Renewal, re-establishment against ill-misreport
Of obdurate finalities, rock-solid blank brick-walls
Of squalid null, of bog-all else, beyond what’s brash, hard cash,
And crank engines of shuttle-bustle thrummings,
Technology, indubitable substantive definites
That what-you-see-you-get; and nothing more

Deplore! – Steeped in a well so deeply-dark dissembled
Stand turbulent naysayers revolving convolutions
On stumbling ways intuiting spoilt waters,
Unseen, although yet pure, most potable, abundant;
True drink beholden of a hope where holiday maintains
Large Delphic grace

This is a place where no word minds beget
Or any thought; nor cobbled, franked, or flawed
Is not supplied by a love performed in heaven

You can also find this poem at our metanomalies blog: http://metanomalies.com/litter-and-birdsong/
Including my linkedin account: https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/litter-birdsong-matthew-raymer?trk=prof-post