Tuesday, 2 February 2016

N

"This is where I always go..." he spoke to his fever, and habitually motioned to throw off that old dust sheet...

"There be cataracts here go back months..."

He stoppeed short.

A small mouse darted across the floor...

The old chair by the window with the L in the spine had been uncovered, straightened, paused upon and thought about.

"My fever is too damn high", he said out loud. " Nobody comes here no more!"

And at that he passed out, rolled onto the floor and dreamed of opening an old time poetry saloon. A place where folks could be free, say poems about what they wanted to say them about, even about the bad times, the old times and the end of times. He'd open it one day, and the ink would be limitless. If only his fever would pass...



L


its been a while
some kind of
exile
where have we all gone ?
tick fuck tick fuck tick fuck
time, that old bastard, creeps up and jollys you
can't be a surprise
he's there
every day
with his ancient hard on
while
you just
shuffle about and kick rocks
into a dead smile 
and
over hearing
'look son, this is where the artists used to go'
now, they don't.
spread far and wide
(not really) but
taking each day
as it cums in your shoes and you squelch it around
trying not to cause a fuss or feel embarrassed
about the complete absurdity
of
spunky shoes