in the end, who needs words when you can't spell the sounds

they run parallel to the ground, away
leaving t's looking like l's, who may fall flatter.
they are dropping like dots from i's,
but they are not wasps but are they flies

there is still a buzz in my ear

the hairs on my head run from the razor,
but only get as far as the cracks in the floor.
the fingers on my hands touch the workmanship,
sculpting my busted head, but change nothing.

the ringing in my ear is familiar

the life has become an empty tube of toothpaste,
and now I have to refill it from the counter.
the live wire I keep touching, looks
like a nerve, in my one arm that is ripping me off.

If I have a tone, it a came from outer space,

my feet are running on the floor, louder the neighbours
are hammering on their ceiling, my legs buckle, no feeling.
there is nothing so refreshing as a dog licking your
face when you are flat on your back staring out to space.

The tone has stopped, they are here...

It begins.


©DWE092013