Thankyou time, withdrawing all sensibility
blinking once or twice each flicker a week
spending fleeting slivers engrossed in depleted
freak shows, speaking meekly of intentions to
overthrow inertia like some laden-down snagged camel
dragging the corpse of a deposed master by the ankles.
Anvils attached to each leg, arm and one around the neck
Don't be upset by that vision, it isn't real.
Instead reflect upon the times when you crushed the
steel burdensome weights like cotton-candy snakes,
coiled at first around sinew and stringy tendons,
thrown off like confetti, abandoned and sniffed at
like some sorry imagined magnet mangled bracelet
abandoned on the boiling substrate.
Stuff this stupid feeling of going backwards.
Lean forwards, push your weight full force supine
into the manacle, feel the pressing choke of the
yolk yanking at your enfeebled vertebrae.
Yell tall obscenities until this blasted thing
begins to drag dumb angel shapes
in the scorched earth.
I'm sick of this figure-of-eight state of play,
praying for the day when the same shit retreats
from every act preordained by some ghostly male
progenitor, a pale general with no horse to ride to war on.
Running sideways with one arm tucked behind his back
hiding crossed fingers that reveal that this whole thing is some
massive cosmic error.
So lay back and stop worrying.
There's no reason to regret neglecting the pursuit of wealth
only to find yourself in a place where material things are immaterial.
Lie down like a cat and feel the vibration from a trillion
tonnes of pointless earth pressing against your body, tearing your
atoms into ever smaller particles. It doesn't matter.
by Paul Sinclair