Turning pages in parks,
Rowdy boys cut out Insult
To little girls quivering off swings.

I could get up and leave
The war between the young,
The kings, fighting to hold their castles,
But meet Incompatibility.

Mother tore track so far
Away from ties of passion,
The threads lay bare and useless in cars.

I remain in the air,
With my Illusion blocking.
Just me and blue: the swing, the sky, ink,
Dripping from my tongue, past and present.

Hip flask, a hand to lips,
Working like headphones to drown
The children’s clamour of hands and hate.

But effects don’t last.
Before blackness hints at stars,
I’ll find myself returned to Insult,
Incompatibility,
And reality,