Zaph Mann : Writer
Mars Is Here


Mars is here, pink as a penny, sparking a twinkle in a beholder eye.
It's pink rhubarb pie on a stick in the sky.
And I don't know why it's not what I spy.

A woman shot a bra arrow bow, too low
Again and again the surf sighed.
The screaming gull struggled with the wound at it's side.

Anthill bodies formed on the beach mounds
over the complaints of infinite sand-hills left by feet screeching sounds
The silver light keg reflected an electric mood
A tide of misconstrued rubbish was sea eagle food
that rose like expectations and faded like wounds
The kids hole dug fall-in tide washed full around.

Mars is here, behind a theatre mask, spiking the punch with an old agave lid.
It's the hot custard soup that would stir as you bid.
And I don't know why it's not what I did.

The topless man's tits fell to bits with his wits
Again and again the surf sighed.
Away crawled the gutted crab, sideways step slide.