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.
gull sweeps sleigh figure eights
escaped , wind unabated
breezing , blasting cloud into strange shapes
this one an ape , that one a rat impaled in a morbid twist of fate
shouldn't have entered the trap, mate
now pouring towards the earth like a savage dart
dragged downwards in a steep arc
a family in a park, someone parking a car
someone opening a jar of hate
dark dogs barking themselves into a stalemate
gull can relate
railing at a mirror image in a lake
Narcissus finding his soul mate
a Trumpian character trait
a deadly virus waits
sick ache swirling mind
a seed planted from a news web site
roots take hold tight and even more tightly
snaking around nose, mouth and eyes.
Treason fields teasing yields unforseen forsaken tolls
taken and taking amid languid raking strolls breezing through fake weekends
leaping weeks and lurching months concealed amid four dour walls;
ceilings pressing, faces pressed flat to dirty glass windows,
straining to see an end to unrelenting isolation or any hopeful signs
of Heroes leading nations yet to emerge from shallow turgid doldrums.
No leaders emerge but the usual misleading scourges regurgitating hurtful words
designed to divide and subdivide villages and town halls.
Still its worth remembering where it all emerged from,
Foisting primitive urges, urging on a resurgent purge of all words and deeds worthy
of civilised discourse. . in the worship of wealth.
No use in forging alliances or embracing old friends until a malign Virus
forces us to return to the mirror of life, to stare our selves in full force of true
Chest pains spoked wheels splayed
spooked reins horse bolting
bolted to blame, blood letting
pulled back black blade, only
resetting to restart the bleeding again
Spikes poking through fragile skin
invoking an imagined maelstrom
a stormy whirlwind
aching to return back to anything
apart from this terminal maddening
Making something, take something away from him
erasing stains on a tarpaulin burned
by chilled flames, raking the coals away again
embers of remembering, trained to
turn away from redemption again
But there is no such thing as redemption my friend
Sanitised sun baked, bleached white
arrayed days, stark sliding nights
sliding by, hours grinding inching
from sigh to sigh, snake minutes coiled
eyes blinking as time snails by
Stare at the wall and feel the anxiety
creep in. Wonder if maybe you'll give in?
Throw the towel in?
But an old lion finally growls inside, a singed paw
shrouds a tired mind.
Not this time my child, this hour is mine.
Changed chastening ideas
Passed around from ear to ear
Apeing dangerous ideals, like
Reimagining interiors and
Interned and interrogated
Like beetles stuck in trees.
Trying to get out from the inside.
Hiding from preying eyes
Eyeing up the prize
Of realising that it's ok
To even consider pride.
Consider prizing open the outside to
Peer at the inside.
Instead dreaming of the inner child that died.
Come to life, try to smile. A terrible puzzle but there the answer lies, enshrouded
But at least I tried.
bumble bee dreams bounce wings beat beat
hum drum dumb dreams complete draining days
bumbling alone or being swept off your feet
drained flowers, exhausted depleted stems
grainy pictures of women, mums and daughters
holding hands with boys, brothers, fathers
hoping to stumble into a warm flower hug
bumble alone from seed to seed, tumbling
down icy ravines into the recent deceased memories
dreary scenes dragged out of brain cells replaying
the same old stories
A glimpse of heartfelt wonder, holding hands on a sofa
handing over to harmful overtones overt sabotage
staging yet another rubble strewn diorama
denying the bumble bee the chance to recover
a tragedy as every bumble bee is to discover
by Paul Sinclair