Dadaistic...

What . . . ?

In a single floral stroke.
What is there?
In these depths
Of these walls…

This gap in time,
Against which we have been projected -
Mystery of missing ships -
To follow this path of their brief blossoming

And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed…
Is your ashen moon to grow?
I might have happily lived some other childhood

And the worlds—skiffs rudderless,
Roiling on and on and on,
This season not their own,
Come, swallows, its good-bye!

Hell

Alone;

Arms
Outstretched -
Mother holds
Her hanged baby
Unable
To free
The rope…

Made for it

Nibble and gnaw

Tiny snicker-snack teeth

Voraciously chewing; devouring

Through pinky red outer layer

Into softer innards...

Time

Twisting leap and spiral kick

Brought him down

She left him there

Dented faced and shattered

And walked away

Slight limp from strained ankle

But no misgivings, none at all

For it’s past time for regrets

And before those lies where told

All was good and well

But that was then and this is now

And this is now…

Never the same

Sucking frantically

Trying, hoping, against all odds

Twisting those frayed ends

To repair that damage done.

Ch...

Her next

Time round

.

Glass chink

Sloshing spilling

.

Firm hands

Around neck

.

Thumbs pushing

Pushing up

.

Hard, harder...

.

POP

.

Another bottle

Opened - drained

.

Later on

Around neck

.

Hands firm

She's cho...

Dispose

So bored
Of it all
Ye'ken? Huh?
But it's my call
And yet
Those hooks are deep
And barbed
Rusted and flaking
But still stronger than I
So
A little longer...
A little longer...

I remain.

Span

See that!?
That glint, that sparkle
Over there, beyond that hedge
I often end up over there
Along that grassy rarely trodden path
Instead of being where I should
Along that well beaten
Long straight and narrow road
Partially due
To my concentration span
Being as long as these words…

It seemed reasonable

Befuddled – half asleep
Sat in car
In car park
Breath misted windows
Giving outside an inside feeling
Trying to write
With broken tipped pencil
Graphite tip smudging grey residue
Across crumpled paper scrap
This snapshot of clarity
In fog filled thoughts
Why don’t cars have sharpeners…

Changes

Nine am,
Sat in a public house
And
It’s crowded…
Not full, but enough
Too many really -
For Thursday morn.
Seven forty seven spent,
At nine ten.
Strange day – just begun…
Our society, our world…
It’s flux.