There there my dear, it's only a scratch, another one for the collection.
Antiseptic wipe; Dettol 99.9% by the way.

Indignancy felt but ushered into a comfortable seat with nice back support and leather upholstery.
Tomato Ketchup.

"This is just wrong, this will not stand!!"  A deafening barely audible roar.
Look there is a fly banging its head against a glass window.  He repeats the action over and over.

A spark flies and it blinds.  Sweet immersion.  Embrace. Warmth. Comfort.
A bubble. Suspension.  The gaze into a lover's eyes....post ****** of course!

Cinema ticket stubs, bloated belly, extra butter.  The cold walk home.
Sorry, I have none on me or I left mine inside or look away.

Discrepency and some     thing dis    jointed.  Lack of understanding.  Inward spirals.
HellNoweWontgO, away they went in disgruntled silence.  Not a stain nor a mark on the beautiful tree lined streets.

Discrepency.
What seperates us.
As simple as a cloud watched, when I see the whisked whiskered cat,
and you see collected evaporation.
An operation as impossible as love,
is unthinkable now
What we don't speak of begins to amount in great size,
and between us grows space. I find our bed is wider.
We manage to keep sleeping on either edge, cold feet shimmering on the matress,
and cold sheets shouting on the floor.
Apart.
It is as if we run either side of the bar where lies Herman's whale,
obstructing you from I.
However, we've not the cable to pull her away. I see her lie alien on that shore
and it sickens me.
As if a rift does not belong in us, but gapes there.
A shadow in the warehouse is not supposed to breathe,
when we are shattering, whirling flash-lights. But they inhale.
As if a wall is not built, 'tween my toast and your tea
at the morning table.
Courage for fixing is not suppposed to play dead.
And that's when I realize
its not playing.

only recently, have my ears spoken
of a piece of music
i can give a name to,
  in the firm, yet comfortable
accommodation of a memory...
just before the would-be
footballers
walked onto the pitch,
of england versus the world's
XI...
            the choir piece...
i searched the internet to
            hear the same anthem...

people contra people...
and the people have spoken...
   it's not exactly
beethoven's ode to joy...
   but händel's zadok the priest...
that...
        incalculable hovering
sensation,
    that humming bird's worth
of orchestating
a differentiation of purpose...
      
with ears, rather than via eyes,
will i come to understand
the holy rest, the eternal,
yet all too familiar...
                             before then?
a whiff of dust bound to
     being cushioned by fog...

my god! a soviet choir!
                          polyushka polye!
such a subtle variant
at the unicef vs. england football
game!
        komrad stav!
                 we've come far
beyond the concept of paris!
          and to think...
   music as a subconscious force
en masse is not a ******* oyster...
a delicacy...
       when the masses are
exposed to a piece of music:
i really have to try to remember
what i listened to...
   mind you...
          if the pristine ones are
to be trusted, then a memory
of 4 hours ago is not to be trusted,
but the stated song is an amnesia
in synonym...
        
    a people are a people:
you can either play chess,
     in a humble abode,
or play chess with people,
                    in a tsar's castle...
which is middle-income
of england by any globalist plateau
standard...
              
   choirs sing synonym anyway:
there's always something profound,
like Verdi's chant of the hebrew
slaves in Nabucco...
               but this song
beginning with the charity match
at old trafford?

            escapes me...
                    yeden osem L kak
zapomnie'c is but one song from 2004,
or 5, or 6... can't remember...

mmmmmmmmmmmmmm...
itchy conscience riddling alzheimer's
in a true experience of
militant protein particles
and lazy aminos...
    
               close to a soviet choir
will not be enough to have the identity
of the song revealed...
   i'm pretty sure there was a choir
involved...
      
          no wonder people began
to fathom a concept: we, the people...
given the discrepency of
an "i" in continuum...
          a momentum like a ******...
and then, perhaps an obituary...

   obituary in a newspaper,
doesn't buy you an epitaph!
      look!
            how many people are
allowed an epitaph on their grave,
the said: seal, and the said:
    but once!       huh?
       i've walked a graveyard
more than once...
      how many epitaphs
have i seen?
        not, one!
                
         because the choir in heaven
is not soviet, transcendent death?!

people die with contraints
       and said day of birth,
and unsaid day of passing...
       but no... epiphany post-scriptum,
post vitae...
       the mark of eternity,
an epitaph...

              i know the unicef vs. england
2018 song was not polyushka polye...
  
        apparently the search engine
that's the base of the internet
doesn't have all the answers.