THE PERSON FROM PORLOCK

The person on business from Porlock

 knocks on my door

and am I still ploughing on my best

poems ever to be.

Still moulding like a clay sculptor

the words to become the God's final words.

My cat snoozes over my red espadrilles,

he perhaps dreams about those poems: 

a dreamscape of moons plenty 

of goldfish and fireflies.

My red espadrilles might as well dream

 on toes with faces of egyptian cats.

The person on business from Porlock 

knocks on the buzzer like hell,

and I'm still plodding along to turn 

Venetian salizades, Parisian passages,

Sevillian callejas and English lanes

into the right path to the perfect elegy.

The crickets trill outside.

A breeze like the giggles of witches

prancing over bucking bulls.

My brindle cat now leaps 

onto a pile of books to be read...

The person on business from Porlock

knocks and knocks and knocks

at early morning.

 I don't want to open the door.

I don't want to sell my soul.

I only intend to keep blooming

 as ruderals in a landfill,

to keep toiling through the furrows of my brain

and digging into the last neuronal light,

my last elegy to come.