Henri Rousseau: The Dream 

MY OLD STRAW HAT (a fiction)

a simmering island mass

an entity where moral codes

of both the uncaged, untamed

vertebrates and spineless wild things

long since have fallen foul of tepid

fate’s unearthly indifference

cloaked saturated evergreen

perspiring rooted miscreation’s

of a godforsaken helter-skelter

intemperate jungle uglifying

the less than razzle dazzling

temperate landmass harshly

empty of natural sweet reason

under a prudish expanded canopy’s

demented shadow-dance oblivion

a cacophony of agonizing

‘screeches’

dawn to dust

                             dusk to dawn

as feathered and crocodilian

battle and openly procreate

under the ever-watchful eye

of wee creepy-crawly beings

liable to both promenade

and scoff the edible remains

of the eternally sickly sticky

dripping days and raw nights

for the main part

well-hidden inland

polished terra-cotta

indigenous tribes of

alleged connoisseurs’

a taste for feeding upon

unseasoned human flesh

whereas at coastal skirts, a

master caste of…