Check, check, check again.
Look again. Look again. Is it good again? Are you still my friend? I've been rude again? Said the wrong words again? Regret the wrecked train-wreck again. Wreck the set, stamp out the mess and tread backwards again. Moon-walking and sliding , regressing time & rewind-again. Instead of living life my friend, existing on the outside, to no end. Outwards seeking eyes for signs and glimpses of kindness , admiring and surprising finds only to find the scowling frowns yet again. Thrown aside again. I read that I should look inside not outside in order to regain. the feeling that is missing and then find my self, like a toy with a spring that was broken, then pop up like a revived rabbit , bouncing big smiles lying again. the inside is clearly retired, tired, decayed and never got started never formed a semblance of any useful device that normal people retain. Fuck it, grit teeth, I will move on again.
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Wolves run in packs, each pounding body
jostling for position, akin to males surrounding a rose flower crammed on a sofa, like sardines. Each bowing, trying to get in, nuzzle into ground like pigs to truffles muzzles snouts with nose and ear rings and hats like clowns. Clowning around. Actual crying sounds, in surround-sound sounding off about times when they found their own flower to sing about. A thorny issue no doubt. Sit taking it in, trying to tune in, Catching a glimpse of eyes THOSE eyes, the ones that sing like sparkling jewels in a sunbeam. Ruby glints and sighs, laughs and surprising smiles. Banter and good times. Flick flick reading looks and tiny changes of minds. But actually aching, waiting for signs and signals to go back to what was amazing. But mistaking. Mistaken. And on and on goes the aching. Hovering on the edge of hell
Anvil ankles like white egg shell Dragged from baby frame to mountain male. Look behind, a crying trail. Handbrake turn! A dream did tell. There is a future, know it well. Its you. Did you see yourself there, promoted? Did you see yourself there, wealthy? Did you see yourself there , healthy? Did you see yourself there, happy? Handbrake turn slammed, SLAM this angry sham of a man. Shake , rattle, roll. Reject the fake fatal flawed foil. Hold still. Hold still. Now go. RUN. RUN! Embers from footsteps as the souls remember, trembles..
padding, tiptoeing and steps thrown over large gaping holes like flimsy coats and blankets over man-holes. A role played by man, yet a man sold. Sell this man's soul, swallowed whole. List the sellers , some small, the others tall. Others retire after performing. So go perform. . Puppet shadows on the wall. This poem is an answer to you all. . A polly-gram like a polly-graph , a year spent lying in dirty parrot-soil. Not long after so-called friends befriend then turn on you once more. Chewed up and spat out like bird droppings, trample all before. Aged, like the frozen egg of a dinosaur. Another sad poetic recoil, in a poetry lab, hands under a table , promises like a gun-retort, withdrawn . Good will spent before the night is out. Withdraw. Yet the marks remain stained like oil. Is he a male troll or merely an ingrained boil? to lance? Dancing kindly trying to find kind eyes , rising to meet mind to mind? No, not at all. Lead down the path then tossed aside , is that enough? No I have more! Lilly pads under frog spawn. Under the cathedral lights at dawn. Rose thorns growing under your skin while you snore. ..the sharp fact of not wanting you any more. Swallow nestles in dank, dense fleecy mess
pecked shreds, specks of flecked dread, like riven chicks coldly rendered dead . Shredded blood black, now that was once scarlet red. Not a Fox, but a metaphor for feeling the same old hopelessness. Try to look ahead? Ahead? I thought I'd try write something positive. I guess Swallow isn't ready yet. I close my eyes,
they glue and won't open black worms bounce , vibrate like frayed rope, and acid coral wings purple and orange and green haze flashes madly across from one side to the next, stop ! I'm not coping! I'm not coping? Copying pair, one day clone to the next , each the same impostor a double helix of ADHD binding , blinding tired old fool be the joke while you're joking. Copulating sighs, winding like pale thighs snaking and winding inside. Baying and hoping, for a climax of shame, still groping and groping. But the thought of hope has expired, retired and died I wipe my eyes then they finally open. Stay for a moment and breathe silt air, sit, stay, try to repair,
pray, make vague note of any sign of rare times trying to relate signs and signals , breaks in sentences, trials from said crimes.. Fair enough, if its worth sighting tried and died in the wool minds, MINDS. Mind you it's a high crime to define slug lines in the sand. A whole band of those I have bought to this uneven land. Outlandish bonds , bound and tried yet never a trial. Tried without a court. Sometimes. Somewhile. A man with vestigial horns scowls at an entrance . Yet he himself is deceitful and in-denial. Torn chances, nasty and hating dances, he wishes to be the one who advances. Deriving pleasure to displeasure the treasure of others. Fine. Yet the isle moves as an Island. Grooved into continental movements away, away, slowly as roses rise and entwine. A rosy mind, red-light shining to the point of being blind. Blinded yet kind, kindred eyes and a meeting of mind. |
by Paul Sinclair
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November 2020
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