Shy is the poet
The Singer, the shadow
Ruled by the ego
Yet scared of the show
Safe is the poet
Content in her habit
Steady is the tortoise
So why chase the rabbit?
Magic is music
But stunted by fear
A book full of lyrics
That you’ll never hear
Prose opposes the posey
Pansy within me
Her search for affirmation
Contradict the roots to the tree
Grounded is my musing
The wordy eternal stream
Scattered is the pipeline dream
That’s running out of steam
Maybe, it excites me to know that no one knows where I’ve trodden.
Even the Aristocrat’s limestone griddles I drip between
Can’t catch me winding round their alleys,
As they sweat with the insurgence of poverty
The homeless laying open-mouthed in the acid rain.
And even they didn’t spot me,
Between the blending of their bones to the ivory.
These desaturates slow-bake in tort light - so sore on the modest eye.
Red-handed claps, won’t beat for the
X-Ray puppet-show of shadows.
And what a shame everyone missed it.
But, more... that they don’t.
Dust.
We all burn to a cinder here,
In some way.
Even the pocket-heavy suffer this form of decay.
I do too... but I think I like it.
Because no one knows which slab my toe has licked
As I marvel at the artisan and the beggar’s beige sick.
I’m invincibly invisible here -
Only one watching is CCTV.
And even that’s got no intention of catching me.
As I have no voice, face or presence.
Each time I return, I retreat in depression.
But that’s freedom too - as I am nothing here.
Nothing to you.
Nothing and no where.
And, neither are you.
Updated: Jul 8, 2019
My chest swarmed
With fluffy hysteric bees -
Bouncing giddy from high octane fumes;
Their sharp little tails
Piercing the cocoon of my lungs,
Like two rose raw balloons.
Swelling up, stretching round,
Over my heart - I pressed my glove;
Aghast! I could taste a fizzy nectar
Of which I could only define, as love.