When the hands are done
when the nerves are shred
I’ll turn to rocks.
As I’m floating in a bell
though the tables turn & bite you back
I’m tied to keyboard black.
Born scared? Burn scarred?
is a station, more
just a platform really with viral melons sneaking out the wet.
I only drink to blow bubbles in the poem.
Clash of symbols – The Cutlet Star; a Worry Jewel.
Tap tap the prickled bones in alcohol
are committed to the fray.
NOONE CAN CONCENTRATE WITH THIS BLOODY MUSIC!
Pianos can cut.
We tunnel beneath the boneyard
then on to the garden where our hair is strafed
by the thrifty greed of corms.
Thought is a kind of energy, though mostly
electron-level shudder, strewage. I aspire to be
trainee basket weaver.
Or a variety of monk
in an hawaiian shirt.
I touched your breast
then rested the wrist on a pillow of your sighs.
I have to be silent
all the useful stuff is written.
The pain goes away
& greater pains move in.
There is no greater void
than that succession.
Another mad team has created life,
DNA swap swingers down the tubes. No big deal we
Exhibit #1 – crack in the day,
a clean deep sunset breaks records.
I’ll tablet-up ‘till my eyes are griddled.
Lugging bags by Page Pde
my weenie wonders hitch a ride.
There is an unusual order that I have found
in this deep place. Alongside the welders & office workers,
parrots rise to greater clamour, doors
slam in applause.
My Inadequacy in its purple robe
has begun to learn its place.