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
Catch something caught finally collided in the net widely
cast, cascaded, castigated, turned half-crazed; related to
aches and pains allayed by affirmation outside of the
thing most-prized - to say in the mirror that today is ok,
that its actually alright.
But rigor-mortis mind rakes arrays of mistakes stiffened and ice cold
facts of times when I failed to fight attacks by ideas black and blue
battered and flayed on the merciless altar of never being good enough.
Not good enough to measure up to the impossible scaled heights
and pedestals where mistakes are never to be found, where
idealistic heroes stand and stark silver spoons protrude from their jowls.
But mistakes can't be overshadowed by fake snake oil salesmen
lying to show just how great their ascent has been and pointing out how
you are not one of them, yet maybe this is just a churlish illusion of a half baked brain
unable to see the reality that it is half baked.
So half baked brain looks to clasp some reality where the other half has a
chance to learn to develop a sense of actual self then. Living in the realms
of seeking affirmation for every breath and cell division, is this ok? Is this
good enough then?
Mom doesn't think so as she rails and deflates the person you should have been.
Is this something actually something then?
The child chastises itself and fails again.
Steel pin claws pine for brazen company
underneath welcoming folds of delicious numbness
mouse lays in warm arms, eyes swimming contentedly
while Vultures gather outside of the mouse trap, taunting
the mouse in final jeopardy, unknowing of the fate
as inevitable as Autumn.
Mouse can't see that the place of refuge is death,
instead cling tightly as tiny talons twitch
turn body into the side, push steel spike into rib flesh
as dream tears dry on singed sanguine fluffy lies
as dark flies gather to consume mouse when death finally arrives.
The mouse trap hidden from prying eyes a, steel death spike
underneath waiting to spring a loathsome surprise.
Cirrhosis skies, purple clotted clouds
Vein lighting shudders across
the horizon of life's deluded miles.
A million mice asleep each in their own mouse trap.
Mouse sits suddenly sensing the trap. Pull aside the cotton layers,
the deceit is revealed to screaming eyes. This was never your bed.
This was NEVER your friend.
Mouse bolts out of the cage before the trap is sprung.
Vultures move to the next cage, this one is done.
Owning onerous memory, fledgling flapping mouths yawning nest-mounted in unsteady awnings
Dangling feathered Owls teetering-teasingly on the edge of falling down
No good morning only asking strangers to unpick the monstrous dawning
realisation that your mind has been pick-pocketed by cuckoo-faced porcine snarling raiders
Raising the potential of living this life without any real idea how to stop life just from pouring
from every pore, feeling poorly pressing against the door, unmoving, mourning.
Removing orange stains from carpets where wrists were torn open blood-letting in letters
using words as blades, fawning at every stranger offering you even a hint of relief from appalling
flashbacks and PTSD dreams. Yawning.
Sleep now, another trauma day is calling.
Flashing frames of vintage film reels
flickering mental images flit-flit hitting
retinas with memory segments accumulated
from years of flailing, self-flagellating behaviours.
Hitting one's self with word nails, steel sharp vowels
reneging rapidly on promises, retracting and withdrawing ideals
stamping out any sense of belonging, sabotaging any potential
back into the wardrobe where no one can see you.
Switch on the projector. Rustling film crawls through sharp mechanisms
mechanically extracted memories flushed out of bones.
Break open and siphon out the marrow.
There is always tomorrow.
by Paul Sinclair