She is
the book falling open to November,
sweet hidden wickedness of rhododendron,
her mouth a tuberose, pale.
*******.

She swells upon the eaves.
They touch at her thighs
to feel the texture of acrylics,
something frail, transitory,
beautiful.

She walks the beach in August,
sudden music out of nowhere,
houseflies and hypodermics,
the shadows that rustle
behind shower curtains.

Her need to be compelling is painful,
something purple and waxen,
a delicate blush.
Still, she writes the way
her body should look,

provocative, breathless,
stirring agony in its wake.

Only a micron between me and the big one,
a thin membrane that keeps me sane or if I
look from the other side,
the membrane that keeps the insane from becoming sane.

Put all your blame on the medical profession who profess profusely to know the cure but unsure of this and not wanting to miss the next update I pick up my bed to walk but find I have to wait and waiting's not a forte for someone over fifty.

We'll all get a placebo to make it seem easier when we go, but we know that it's not, when I tot up the favours asked for and unbidden and find all the days lost that were hidden from me by something or someone unseen it's obscene.

I understand now the sleight of hand and how it works, the peccadilloes and quirks of the people I've met, why I bet the outsider, but not why life has a rider attached like the codicil to a will and will I ever learn that trust is something that I have to earn and yet still give freely.

But I know where and who I am and where I've been and having come to terms with that I can dream peacefully, hopefully for years to come,
unlike some.

When the membrane disintegrates and all trace of me dissipates would the molecules that once were me join up again to commiserate?

I shall wait for the inevitable, but there's one thing for sure, those who thought they had the cure will be waiting alongside me, hypodermics in hand and analysing eternity.

hypodermics lined up like firing squad rifles, loaded with Morpheus' mortal brew

at this "humane" place, where we stare in the face of every critter we "put down"

felines, canines, by the score--there will always be more

we do it Thursdays; each gets its own black plastic bag, for a trip to the incinerator

courtesy of the county's grandest
crematorium

that has donated the friendly fire for our four legged friends;

we watch the trails of smoke fill the night sky

there is no Zyklon B to fear--not here, where we use shots instead of showers

and pass the hours scratching the ears and petting the rumps of those we slaughter with sleep

Dreaming the farm again
I wake and
want to self harm again

the farm's a place of pain
hypodermics in a vein,
it's been a long time
but
I dreamt again
that farm of mine.

Coffee revives me.

In case you didn't know
the farm was the place
I used to go and
It
quite willingly
assisted in
killing me.

if complicity is the crone of crime
I alone
am guilty.

I want to change the world,
but I cannot change my mind.
Ten thousand years of bad behaviour haunts my DNA,
it’s going to take a coup;
The seizing of hypodermics of the working day,
its going to take a courageous venture into the mists.

For this brave new circus which the clowns all call CIVILisation
is only civil as far as the pig can spit,
it’s as civil as a civil war.
Irony is lost on the blind nestled within the dark,
harkening to the whispering shadow,
so fine-tuned they think it the light.

Its a bleak sunset of business as usual.
The judgement of some higher power on this
will be cast into the same sty where the enlightened fester,  
where all new thoughts are smeared in ****
where all the stoic poets weep.
But only if
We do not change our minds.

Liberation and love wait for the collective
we are One and One is all
The End must be rejected