“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.
Your honour.
Play the evidence”

The sound of a projector whirrs
As wind in a snail shell.
TAKE ONE.
REPLAY.

“The defendant knew the man,
Had talked to him on train stations,
But kept it as hidden as a brief encounter.
He knew this man liked that band,
Not liked, loved,
And the defendant had a whole playlist to recommend and a whole compilation of
Critical readings on Post-Britpop to articulate.
However!
the defendant being
Slow and mollusc minded.
He kept his oyster shut.
SLOW THE FILM!...”

The whirring whizzes to ticking,
As nagging as potentially productive hours.

“Slowing the footage,
we can see
That his mouth even hesitantly gaped for a second.
Not one of his greatest hits was it?”

Ha,
I think,
No need to punish me.
I do that deed upon myself.
My pen scribbling, clicking,
Ticking,
Whirring,
In my head at night,
With conversations I never had.

The Messiah in Miss Hart’s class,
Has torn his hands from the pins that stuck into him with
Doubt at success,
Doubt in the light.
Now, he wonders the desert, to live out his life.
You’re a small percent
But you’re not different

So many ideas, such a creative spark.
But you don’t write a word.
though your brain screams a speech.
You could be in a far off land.
Just lift the pen in your hand.
But your body is a tide pulled by the moon,Hidden
in the sky that’s
Grey enough to ignore.
Grey enough to anger,
Grey enough to cloud a view.
Why am I sat here?,
I have a million things to do?

Chop mushrooms in the kitchen,
Mix in the soup
Eat that mushroom in the dark,
To make your eyes droop.
Cut weeds in the garden,
To clear the flower bed,
Spread weeds at the party,
To stop feeling dead.

You want to escape, so you clasp a headphone to your ear,
But your fantasy should be here,
As you have no work for a year,
You have no purpose for a year.

DNA and genetics strummed,
Note by Note,
with memories of how you
Danced them, the chosen ones,
through childhood,
on their own
stages
of grief and joy.
In a cinematic style,
for the soundtrack was intended to heighten the
emotion,
but ended up framing it as well as any photograph.

They are now stuck on the stage
of so-called postmodernism,
despite the dreams being the same as yesteryears.
A free festival of colours:
Psychedelic, Acidic, Neon and
Corporate non-prolific,
NEVERLAND, TAKE US!
they beg.

The courts' reading of this DNA,
will grind chords to cash.
Are you the parent that hits their child
For dancing the steps they themselves had laid out?

I' AM INNOCENT
The thief proclaims.
For notes belong to no one,
or the birds would be plucked feather by feather
and the whales carved in an Eastern market.
A child will copy it's parent.
As do the pub stage hopefuls reach for your hands.

she sped down the hill;
the cool wind flying through her hair and dancing
on her creamy, golden skin.

speckled with freckles,
her smooth hands gripped the handle bars
of her bike.

the machine seemed to quiver
under her fingers and
despite
being a little old and rusty,
let her fly
on oiled springs
and rubber pedals.

they are like constellations of stars
flung across the infinity of my cheeks.

they are like suns and moons
my face is the cosmos.

my face is a blank canvas
and they are the paints.

my face is the water
and they are the ripples that run through it.

my skin is my own
and they are there.
even when i don't want them to be
they will be.

just like everything else, normal.