Hair Elegy

Riding in with jet black fuzz.

Little strong toes soon do step,

Curtains feathering in salty breeze.

The discoverer of perfumed paraffin,

Laced through teenage locks.

Behind a mirror, pegged to a chair.

Growing jaded by punch-less lines,

Of English weather, of pop-trivia politics and bus routes.

He could do the job in less words,

Paying nil in own time.

Singing secret songs,

Holding high the hand held mirror;

Scissor-hand, deliberating in his right.

Naked and pale under bathroom bulbs of halogen.

Sweeping trimmings from the floor,

Plucking chunks from plugholes.

The bonsai tree, finding Zen,

Meticulous, though lacking perfection.

Hairline erosion, broadens the skin.

The chalky cliff face,

Hanging willow-

Weeping wistfully,

Bowing and blowing.

Shapeshifting badger,

Punctuated with white wiry strands.

Badges of honour,

For the time, for hardships, for loss.

The aged plain faced goth.

Vainly applying black shoe polish,

To save his youth.

Abruptly sparse and scaly,

The blistered crustacean,

Stained in indigo.

Crack the aloe,

Smooth into sun seethed sores.

Like an adored gob-stopper,

Peeling back layers.

Painful pigmentations,

Purple, raw, and rust.

Liver spots on lizard skin,

Like Jupiter or Mars.

A wig is much too crass,

The salt in the wound.

A hat doth keep the egg-head warm,

Responsible, more dignified.

Ah, Remember the virgin black hair?

The pacifist cactus,

Melting hearts.

The once well groomed,

Breaking hearts.

Long gone are the days,

Of combing and conditioning.

Feverish dreams of stuffing cushions,

Squirreling nuts away for the winter.

Winter has come,

The nuts have gone.

No longer burdened by coiffured rituals.

Mere memories in faded photo albums.

Hair today,

Gone tomorrow.