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and from hemisphere to horizon our eyes met in a soft bay-window close of a blink,
an I Do mimed back with lip sync accuracy,
an actual love at first sight:
a 400cc transaxle Wheel Horse,
the lawn mower to the z-list stars who mow their lawns in stripes from the scars of those first few months of learning.
I’m one wacker plate and hedge cutter short of a deal
and I’m nowhere close to the 250 your asking for
so I'll mention the broken steel.
It’s exhaust looks bust,
more gust than a forty a day for several years.
I need light siesta breath from speaker phone,
smooth rum down waterslide whiskey of sauna and overflow,
and that don’t come cheap after you factor in the shipping for everything.
The cutting deck looks fucked, too,
needs a patch up,
but I’ve got a double first in Ground Force and Grand Designs,
nerves of Robson Green fishing over land mines.
I can fix anything as fast as it takes Ross Kemp to diffuse all situations,
never seen confidence like it;

the yarn stretched into a sink hole of a cardigan sleeve
and from it’s depth rang a village shop doorbell bundled into the back of a snooze button,
gone but not forgotten.
Yet here was some presence from you,
a bit of time for after,
had your very own western front play out there from above you
with
hydro-dam heartbeats soloing from ribcage to temple,
where headaches smashed holy men taking handfuls from cash cows.
We wouldn’t care for your applause,
cheers from the house,
'cos there’s always more debts to pay,
beers in a drought.
And the trench walls in periphery bent into laughter
as our stares turned into sights to see if the other would surrender.

Egg whites under neon lights,
the thousand yard glare,
reflections in scuffed metal 'cos mirrors tend to ware
unlike the wars they hide,
causes for more arms,
I’m a pacifist baby,
got a lawnmower and a farm.

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