Mechanical pulse grates like granite boulders;
blocks, rocks; frozen rigid shoulders
spines and neural passages passing
the time inert, passively;
parsing repeating memories
removing particles in miles -out extremities
extruding free radicals, finally freed,
exuding radical ideas and emboldened mind seeds.
Thud thud thud goes the blood stream.
A headache crown on top of a spinal dream.
Pitch sharp crystal glass crashing alarm bells ringing
pummelling frontal wall in your face gnashing
eyes bulging shouting at dogs barking blaming
basically nothing on no-one
the noise is only children playing
I suck at this , that , those, writing prose;
pretending to know , yet not knowing but smiling
yet not smiling, a dead-eyed doze , feet tapping
a thousand tap tap tap -dance , jiggling knees , twitching toes
eyes flicking flickering , bony elbows
digging in , scraping on sandpaper pillows.
closed stone apertures , dingy gaps , cave holes
tightly snapped , gripped, tracking apps
retracting back, trying to close
swallow grit down with pints of snow
swallows emerge from nested shallows
shielding, .. yet viral shadows follow.
Bone marrow, borrowed from tomorrow's
blood transfusions, infused with blood red sorrow.
Not the same old too -and-frow.. oh no...
Go for a walk, tread the same tired steps away from
dread. Wash your inside face in alcohol.
Numb the feeling , strum the rails , clasp tightly
to bony walls. You can't leave it at home.
Its there in your head silly boy.
Stagger across a road, almost run over by a red
speeding wheelbarrow. Get back in the hedge
a leafy hug and place to hide and join Swallow
in it's nest.
Curtain drawing across beating chest
vision draping , curling wings like feathered fingers
getting ready to sing. Better think of something.
This head needs a new tune , a new ring tone
and a new head for this body to follow.
Come this way , meander that way
but stay off of the same old road.
A year of writing the same old .
Drawing the same old.
just looking for a hand to hold.
by Paul Sinclair