The World Is.

The world is not the images in my head,
or paperback fiction caught in nets.
The world is complex. The world is strange.
The world is the sweetness of a southern breeze.
The world is the swirling smoke of cigars on Sandbanks beach
mixed with the pugent smell of fish washed up on the bay.
The world is a lump of clay, moulded into shape but then
distorted by human hands.
The world is a wife to rely on and a husband to keep straight.
The world is a carrot and a stick.
The world is a record to break
The world is a contract to strive for.
The world is proud. The world is shame.
The world is a shy girl with porcelain breasts posing for her art professor.
The world is a pure white canvas.
The world is a waterlilly landscape.
The world is a number of equations in random sequence.
The world is a lager a week and a laugh with the lads.
The world is a tramp lying in a gutter.
The world is a drunk lying in the Ritz.
The world is a prostitute on a gravel street corner.
The world is the black haired boy you never saw.
The world is by the phone, waiting for that call.
The world is your next of kin, if any at all.
The world is unatainable. The world is unreachable.
The world is passed understanding and beyond knowledge.
The world is complex. The world is strange.
The world is not the images in my head,
or paperback fiction caught in nets.