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A few years ago
Writers were chained
To typewriters.
Imprisoned by words.
Filling rolled white pages,
Onion-skinned and erasable.
They knew where
Their chains ended.
Today, I'm tethered
To a satelite,
Linked,
With no end
In sight.
 May 2015 Tom McCubbin
Rose
I wonder
If your eyes are twitching
If your chest is shaking
Heart rattling inside
With each breath
My skin gets tighter
My thoughts run faster
Faster and faster until
My mind is a track
Scarred from burned rubber
I wonder I wonder I wonder
 May 2015 Tom McCubbin
Rose
Papa
 May 2015 Tom McCubbin
Rose
I saw Death creeping
Licking his chops
Preying

I watched him
On his tip-toes
Polish fruit and
Smell old ladies perfume

To him the days are
Light and easy
Moments don't add up
Time won't get heavy

But when the clock struck 8:01
You went with him
Where to, I don't know
I wish he would leave us alone
.
The sun pours upward into day
And the little cottages by the sea
Are smoking, sandy souls are turning
In their beds by the glaring windows
That hide the birds who were always
There singing, this is a new day, wake,
Wake into dream they are saying, play,
Scurry with wings into light, every branch
Is an avenue, each leave a communion,
Coffee and tea are soon brewing, tangled
In the chlorine mist of the ritual showers.
What to wear this self made, self same
Day?  Fingers tracing glass, new messages
Are frozen in light, so many things to do,
Undo, ****** into ones mobile devices,
Off to work and pressed into their mask,
Ready, makes of shuffles same to endure,
Eight hours or more later, the wounds
Of indifference, avoidance and deflection
Rear and hunch shoulder, weary as it
Trumps joy in a limp to shelter, soon
Too late to be home, and bathe
In the numbing light of situation
Comedy, tragedy, star seekers
Flail on the flat screens, that's
Entertainment, ready, sold,
Told for next new days slog,
And then, all must off to bed
Only to dream mercifully,
Again as dear sun is falling,
Wakes into lost horizons.
Mechanically he put out his best press
Straightened his yellowing pages
In spite of little pieces flaking off
Like dandruff

Ow !
His spine was not as strong
As in younger presses

He bathed and used aftershave
But still he had that musty air about him

He lay claim to nervous fame
As he fidgeted with the book markers
About to be given as gifts
For her , his blind date

She came in fresh in expectation
Her beauty made him full of dejection
Her cheerful voice proved
to be more than exhaultation

He fumbled for the first sentence
Of subjection , but
Managed only to say
"Please ! I'm just an open book to be read"

She eased over
And ran her fingers over his cover .
down his bindings ,
then inside his yellowing pages

She sighed ,
with pleasure ,
"Yes , this is my perfection "
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