What sits in this swivel-chair?
What sits, amidst the tangle of electric cords, the books and papers, a discarded teacup?
can this debris be said to be mine, I its, or is it more of a mutual arrangement?
Drowsy-gummy eyes, brought on by flue medicine.
Hands that could easily span the entire keyboard, brought on my genetic (ill) fortune
and the dissonance between the look and feel of them.
Photocopies from art catalogues line the walls, hastily placed
to ward off magnolia’s monotony
Shoes in need of replacement,
words in need of absorption,
pixels in need of pushing.
And It’s over
I go back.
and perhaps return.
It seems counter-intuitive to say that my body drags me.
When I seem to drag it, not so much for the walking, or the doing, but for the now very abstract goals.
But however one looks at it, it will continue.
The moment will trundle on
The speculation will continue to dance at its head,
and the ramshackle edifice will continue to grow in its wake.
Lunar mist of pale blue hue
whose depths I’ll never truly know
but glean form words whose forms do flow
from lips I fear I’ll never kiss
To never ask and never know
lest life lead lonesome to it’s end
aside one chance at wholeness throw
Beneath my ribs, the constant tug
a heart that serves to resonate
In doleful tones, bemoans past choice
at friendship’s cost did passion sate
Love’s is a blindness that nears perfection
for when gazing out at a world all plain
Sees all rebuilt in it’s own reflection
a deaf ear to judgement’s callus refrain
Born into a hollow grid
whose dreams have long since perished
though outwardly embellished
Bovine and placid
we passively graze
a hopelessly flaccid
and tepid malaise
Habitual consumerist ritual contrition
…a word perfect sales pitch meanders
‘a slice of your soul for a better position’
Not even a trace of sincerity
Chewed to the bone
sup hapless on marrow
The bewildered blood-lust of the narrow minded
the brittle veneer
Disrobing the hatred
who beds with our fear
A strained conception
bereft of affection
A Neon foetus
in a cellophane whom
Torn from abdominal packaging
A polythene bag
cannot stem the bleeding
The new life soon suckles
on the foetid teat of fascist inbreeding
Fear and hatred’s child
Still stolidly steeped in the minds reaches
and feel it
Rising and ravenous
A rhythm of war
beneath affluent avarice.
Well versed in choosing from a tailored selection
A stark forest of focused fingers
Fear and hatred
Clenched and set
find their make where knowledge made little
A Dull thud
An action repeated
adding substance to violence
The cricket bat shatters the side of her scull
Acts so far removed from suburban banality
burns a hatred
for so long unsaid
Paved order runs red before eyes of lead