"marc" poems
On your Marc, Get Set, GO!!
3 Marks, in 2 days
A sign...
Obvious in fact.
First there was the Mark of the Cathedral
Perfect in It"s Reverence,
Baptism of Creativity.
Then, there was the Racehorse.
Faster than a speeding Bullet,
able to leap tall buildings with a single ping
And then finally,
the one whose name means Beautiful...
Artist, Creativity, Perfection..
the only one who matters...
Three Marks, one Anointing.
A confirmation of Love
An Ordination of Willingness
God's pen upon the paper.
the true Mark of Humanity
Blessing.
In all circumstances
Blessing.
Peace, Holy Spirit.
And So It Is.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 2:48 AM UTC
Cheers!
We praise our lined faces. We forgive time.
We raise our cups of double-pressed wine.
We know brute forests from our seed-time
We know heaven will cleave those we entwine
The season of heat is slow to erupt.
April is late. March is still covered with snow,
Its shabby sheet weak shoots barely interrupt.,
Succession and succession is what we know.
In the thronged marketplace we know we’ll find
Lines of who came before and who came after
All seem in be arranged by some infinite mind
Knowing where our line goes will not stop our laughter.
We dance. All dances are in our repertoire.
We know we’re headed to that sacred abattoir.
Marc Tretin
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
Better to be Pyramus and Thisbe
than god Apollo and Daphne?
As love oft triumphed by envy.
Oh to be Abelard and Heloise
or Juliet you and Romeo me!
Cleopatra, Marc Antony,
Orpheus, and Eurydice!
Martyrs to Cupid, were you wary
of the price to pay? Did you find peace
from Plato’s coined mental disease
in Pluto’s long halls of Hades
or the self induced daily shade of trees?
What of love dooming kin to Achilles?
When Dido and Aeneas meet
is her suicide guaranteed?
Pray tell us, can true love ever be free!
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 9:14 AM UTC
High on the O2:
Red Rossopomodoro, Wagamama,
and on the bus shelter, Marc Jacobs,
and again higher,
Habitat,
then Metroline moves past.
It's the 113
to Oxford Circus,
and the 13 to Victoria:
Thrilla Lives On,
shouts the slogan,
while National Express has
All Set For Take-Off.
They're gone...
It calms
empties,
nothing much
just the red lidless eyes
of cars
two, three, four dozen pairs
hover
over the asphalt road.
Where...
where am I?
Ahhh, yeah,
in the Oriental Star,
the road seen from a table and stool,
waiting
for food.
Where have I hailed from?
My lover's womb.
No, no
NOT THAT!
The North Star, yes:
A pub on the Finchley Road,
Where Tottenham beat Liverpool 4-1
A pyrrhic victory!
Over a couple of beers.
Warm years, and tears.
A sense of place,
a home, a nest,
Receding in the traffic
Of a busy road,
Waiting on noodles.
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 6:15 PM UTC
The crew of ****** all hide their own secret loneliness. At every port the deserted dance halls beckon, and there they dance with familiar ghosts. At twelve midnight sharp the spirits disappear along with the tuxedoed band and the music dies leaving red white and blue tinsel, miniature plastic flags, and balloons that glide and bounce to a solitary, prolonged note.
The sailors cease spinning and their arms drop to their sides. They drown in bottles of *** in search of solace. They rarely find barely a taste. And so, in frustration they fight and draw first and last bloods. Now, in scuffed shoes and torn clothes, with damaged pride, they stagger arm in arm back to ship.
The water laps and licks it’s tongue like a cat at cream and the crew whisper breath rings in the chilly air.
Master Chief Petty matron mother waits on deck, rolling pin in hand, kicking backsides into cabins.
The ship bobs and dips in rhythm to sailors heaving snoring chests, and there they sleep, fly catching open mouthed, hugging their pillows in desert island dreams.
Copyright Marc Hawkins 2009
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
Sometimes half asleep, scribbling words
or waiting for the morning sky to deliver birds
I fall off the edge, leave this tiny bed
float on rainy streets, there is no one that I meet
only a corner vacant house, where precious paintings hang
I am staring in the window, at flowers yellow, blue
this must be the room of Vincent Van Gogh, this starry night
with lily ponds so beautiful, fields of flowers
purple iris, Monet meadows
brown skin woman, hibiscus flowered
island scenes of Paul Gauguin, so brightly colored
there are pastel Degas dancing ballerinas
Marc Chagall, blue indigo people
without legs, they smile surreal
this museum of the mind
minutes like hours
turned sublime
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
I fell into a dream
waking up into a
cookie-scented utopia
of apostrophes that indicated
ownership
because it was Marc's cookie
and participles grasped and
secured
like a balloon tied to a toddler's hand
I fell into a dream
where nothing was kool or
rite
and everything had been
twice read, reviewed, evaluated, and
deemed worthy
like the cupcakes that get placed
on the plate in a
Cupcake War
I fell into a dream
of silence during silent work time
not invaded by a slithering serpent
fork-tongued and effulgent with ideas
expressing expressions
idioms cliches redundancies falsehoods
lies
and the silence hung like
an anticipated snow
cold cloaking with excitement
and a feeling of being completely
awake.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 11:26 AM UTC
Everybody knows today's figures.
Lincoln Park. Kanye West. Beyonce.
Musicians. Artists. They are all praised in today’s society.
But nobody knows the names of people who actually matter.
Willis Carrier. Invented the air conditioner.
Nobody knows his name.
Robert E. Kahn. Made the internet.
Nobody knows his name.
The problem with today’s society
Is that the minds of young people are being poisoned.
By the schools who leave things out of textbooks.
By the people on the street, screaming their views.
The riots, the protests, the hell of today.
Poisoning the minds of young people.
Reed Hastings. Marc Randolph. Nobody knows them
Yet millions of people use Netflix.
SalvinoD'Armate. Nobody knows his name.
Yet over 4 BILLION people wear eyeglasses.
Young people today hate history.
They think, “Why do we need to learn about dead people?”
George Santayana once said:
“Those who cannot remember the past, are condemned to repeat it.”
We learn these things, not to be bored in history class.
Not to just **** time in the day.
But to inspire. To help young people to become creative, more innovative.
Imagine a world, where Alexander Bell never made the telephone.
Imagine a world, where the internet, just wasn’t a thing.
Imagine a world, where nobody invented new things.
William Higginbotham. I Guarantee that nobody in this room knows his name.
He created the very first video game, Tennis for Two, in 1958.
Without him, we would not have the games we have today.
Assassin’s Creed. Grand Theft Auto. Call of Duty.
People play these games, and use the other things I’ve listed every single day,
And they use them without any thought, or appreciation for where they came from.
Or how far we have progressed as humans.
So I ask you this. Who invented the desk you are sitting on?
Who invented the jacket you’re wearing?
Who invented that pen in your pocket?
You don’t know, do you?
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 1:52 PM UTC
Dear Marc (like cheese),
Your hair is soft (like cheese),
Your bed smells cool (like cheese),
Your chin is squishy (like cheese).
I like your basement (like cheese),
I like your drums (like cheese),
I like the ground (like cheese),
I like bubble pipes (like cheese).
Your socks are black (like cheese),
Your eyes are blue (like cheese),
Your hair is yellow (like cheese),
Your floor is carpet (like cheese).
You like cabbage poems (like cheese),
You like play station (like cheese),
You like cigar smoke (like cheese),
You like chocolate (like cheese).
I like your style (like cheese),
I like that you dance (like cheese),
I like your childishness (like cheese),
I like Pokemon (like cheese).
You are tall (like cheese),
You are white (like cheese),
You are my friend (like cheese),
You are Marc (like cheese).
I AM COLE (unlike cheese)
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 8:08 AM UTC
Signs point in different directions
Art>
<Science
History^
Oddities¿
Art:
Every memory of every sunrise
Every beautiful melody
Here.
And so many images of her.
Some sweet
Some candid
Some sad.
How can we revel in the joyful
Without knowing it's opposite?
Every delicate poem
Every lyric yelled
Every painting
Every sculpture
And in all of them,
Her.
Science:
Models of molecules
Diagrams of data
Sketches
(Where are the equations?)
Math is forbidden in this museum.
Lectures
Theories
All gathering dust.
History:
Names.
The greatest of men and women
Julius Caesar
Constantine
Marc Anthony
Cleopatra
Rosa Parks
Elinor Roosevelt
Patton
Churchill
Kennedy
MLK
Maps and charts
Famous cities of old
Sparta
Alexandria
The halls of Montezuma
Constantinople
Babylon
Oddities:
Phantom Kangaroos
Homemade Bazooka
"That made the news?"
And Bubblegum the Baluga
The Raven Empress
Flaming mattress
Sharks with lasers
Pandas with Tasers
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
She said to me "Marc now there's something i just could never understand, where is your heart exactly because I don't know how you continue to stand. How many times has it broke and how many times has it healed, if it's healed, has it healed? I don't get it why don't you give up like any other man?" All I could do was smile as a took her hand and in its Palm I traced my heart like I would in the sand, and I said. "My heart is in your hand where it has always been, and all those struggles yeah they’re hard but it makes it all worth it when we gaze at the stars." And as I closed her hand her teardrops hit the sand and washed into the ocean blue as she grasped out for me yelling I love you. And in the silence of our embrace she realized our hands had found grace as our heartbeats sang a tune we felt through our palms on that warm afternoon.
MJP
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 1:50 AM UTC
Handbags
Fetish for handbags...
The last time I counted
Almost 100 of them
Variety of brand names
LV, Gucci, Hermes, coach, Burberry, Jimmy Choo, Marc Jacobs, Fendi
Ohhh.... you just name them..
Some were bought
Some were given on special events
Proud of the collection, love them all
But closet is full..
Keeping some in the store..
Collecting dust , waiting time to rot
Why not sell them?
Donate the profit to charity, orphanages, old folks etc..
Handbags too many...
Can save lives of many...
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
Slashers Defined
In response to my piece, Slashers, it was requested that maybe I could
reveal at least which band or other info these great guitar players performed for to gain their claim to fame. I don't want to spend too much
time on this defintion, but will give what info I think is pertinent. If you do not know some of the names I have presented to you, and you are a blues,
rock, jazz, fusion guitar fan, I suggest you take the time to listen to some of their work. I have included some of my favorite incredible fusion players that do not have a super star following, but are renowned in their group of fans, probably mostly musicians to some degree.
If you are a frustrated guitar player like I am, do not listen to the likes of Holdsworth, Johnson, Gambale, or Morse unless you love being tortured.
Anyway on with the show.
Eric Clapton – Yardbirds, Cream, Blind Faith, Derek and the Dominos.
Jimmy Page – Yardbirds, Led Zeppe, The Honeydrippers, The Firm
Jimi Hendrix – not only what is, but, what could have been
Alan Holdsworth – Solo jazz fusion player – hot
Steve Howe – Yes, Asia - Progressive rock, jazz –
Bill Nelson – BeBop Deluxe, Solo
Terry Kath – Chicago (25 or 6 to 4) – another sad early departure
Ted Nugent – Amboy Dukes, **** Yankees – The madman
Jim Krueger – Dave Mason Band – solo progressive rock
Eddy Van Halen – Van Halen
Ritchie Blackmore – Deep Purple, Rainbow
Jerry Doucette – Doucette (Mama let him play)
Eric Johnson – Solo – New Age, jazz
Frank Gambale – Australian- Jazz, fusion, rock
Goerge Benson – Jazz
Larry Carlton – Jazz, new age rock
Marc Farner - Grand Funk Railroad
Peter Frampton – Humble Pie, solo
Joe Satriani - New age – solo
Johnny A. - jazz, new age – solo
Danny Gatton – jazz, rockabilly – solo
Chet Atkins – jazz, country
John Mayer – Pop, blues – solo
Neal Schon – Journey
Steve Lukather – Toto
Masyoshi Takanaka – New age, jazz – Japanese solo
Lee Ritnour – Jazz, new age – solo
Leslie West - Mountain, West Bruce & Laing
Monty Montgomery – jazz, blues (accoustic you have never heard)
Wes Montgomery – jazz 40's – 50's
Phil Keaggy – New age Christian
Robin Trower – Procul Harem
Brian May – Queen
Rick Derringer – Montrose, Edgar Winter Group, Steely Dan
Robin Ford – John Mayall, Chick Corea, solo jazz, fusion, blues
Carlos Santana – Santana
Ronnie Montrose – Montrose
Steve Morse – Dixie Dregs, Kansas, solo jazz, fusion
Trevor Rabin – Yes, solo new age
Gomer LePoet...
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 1:19 PM UTC
All I am a memory drawn in an old picture
I sit there in the yard as I did a year before
everything's different and still the same
The exact same walls I painted back then
with the same paintings of stars and dreams
there where I felt the burden of the future
But then what is a future without colours?
Imagine a world between Monet's water lilies
and the soothing sounds of a piano
There where I sat with a long lost friend
gazing stars that now I can name
and there we talked about art and love
I think about those photographs too much
as time is forever frozen and minds shine
Should I abandon my crown now?
When I'm lonely I dive in books and memories
embroidered with Marc Chagall's dreamy mixtures
and sometimes I cry too much, but it's okay I know
I'll keep them inside the compass of my heart
I'll never be alone till I can still remember
all of what I learnt between lyrics and unsaid words
Some day far away from today we will meet
in some street forgotten or around trees
I hope maybe I'll will still write and dream
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
Veins, veins,
length and breadth,
intertwined
beats to freedom
or desolation;
a terminus
lost on a circular.
An ebbing destination,
unchartered targets,
Follow the signs.
We are a one way street,
follow the signs
on software maps.
Stumped
by sequential lights
and us, caught
in a dragnet
within steely fish,
gasping for air,
choking on smoke,
bilious coughs,
hacking sputum,
gobbing phlegm globs
in interval gaps
within gridlocks;
nose to **** to
nose to ****
The rage, the stares
the shouts, the finger,
the Grrr’s, the Rrrr’s,
the honks, the blares,
the bumper to bumper
expletive shares.
The rolling down,
the alighting,
the threats,
the fighting.
The falling down,
the separation,
reseating,
the rolling,
the thunder,
the trudge,
the stops, the starts.
Follow the signs,
follow the signs.
Robotic conveyors
for humans,
mechanical
fossil fueled
chariots,
grumbling, grunting,
wheee-ing and
screeching,
and screaming
and spewing
and chuffing
and guffing
black plumes,
air tarred,
veins, veins
clogged and bogged,
viscous, molasses,
liquid black blob.
Road fogged,
numbers logged.
Veins, veins,
follow the signs,
slow crawl.
Veins, veins,
follow the signs,
follow the signs,
sprawl.
Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 6:20 AM UTC
All that will remain is bones and rotting meat
Toss it in a cheap wicker box for worms to eat
Topped just with wild flowers and no cement
Plant a weeping willow instead of a monument
It can do the weeping, please don't you cry
There is a chance that I'll be busy when I die
For if I am wrong and there is life after this
I have plans with whom I'll dine and reminisce
I'll be dining with Oscar Wilde and Caravaggio
Cocktails and conversation with Kant and Plato
Then with Bellini, Verdi and Rossini I'll take a Show
An interval tipple and discourse with Rousseau
An after party with Bakunin and Proudhon
Whisky and blues with Howlin Wolf til I'm gone
I shall breakfast the next day with Tz'u Hsi, Homer and Malcolm X
And take morning coffee with Gandhi and Marc Bolan from T.Rex
At noon a spicy ****** Mary with Mary Queen of Scots,
Freddie Mercury, Lou Reed, Picasso and lots of tequila shots
Lunch that day with Saladin, Karl and Groucho Marx
Then smoke a pipe with Newton whilst discussing quarks
Afternoon tea with Queen Victoria, Kipling and Colin Ward
Followed by a game of Tafl with a viking on a giant board
Dress for flamenco with Carmen Amaya (then dress the blisters)
Then pre-dinner drinks paid for by Geronimo and the Bronte sisters
So you see, if I'm wrong
And we actually move along
A fascinating after life awaits me
Yeah, when I'm gone from here
There'll be plenty gin and beer
Cucumber sandwich's and tea
If you wonder what I'm doing
Give your watch a quick viewing
Then just check this poem and you'll see
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
Our footsteps echo through ancient halls,
where here is everywhere
and every time is now.
Caesar’s twin-edged conquests are our own
as is Brutus’s fickle knife
and Marc Anthony’s cunning speech.
Plague steals across our Europe
like a remorseless highwayman -
rosies all ringed and falling down.
We wait in Wien's Kärntnertor theater
for Schiller’s An die Freude
to shine anew in Beethoven’s score
and are ushered in at Menlo Park
where Edison's tungsten faintly glows.
Tomorrow will bring sun to the night.
There's Jonas Salk at his microscope.
One more test will crack the code
to banish polio's scourge.
But nature’s caprice strews logs on our roads.
We are dashed by a Tsunami’s rage.
Katrina’s torrents have swallowed our homes.
Prides of warriors wade rivers of blood
and Darfur bullets tear into our chests.
Nuclear Toys ‘R Us shelves are fully stocked.
We are the heirs of each triumph and treachery.
We grasp the keys to tomorrow.
What have we done? What must we do?
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:35 AM UTC
I need to be serenaded
by a guitar overdriven
into distorted bliss,
there's something
so uplifting
in the crunch and fuzz.
Marc Bolan’s swagger
and funk infect me
and I giggle in delight
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 7:58 PM UTC
So this is Christmas
and what have you done?
John purrs the question
through tiny
crackling speakers
begging responsibility
from the irresponsible at best,
begging for peace
and a season of rest.
I lost a war, John;
I tripped on hope and arrogance
and earned forty six new badges
of valor;
I fell from the rafters of a fantasy bridge
to the cold reality beneath
and I broke bones--
ribs and femurs,
radii and hum'rouses.
I have met Marc Antonys and Brutuses,
Pagliachis and Heathcliffs,
and met them in myself.
I have sobbed into futons
ripe with nachos and socks
and I curled in another's arms
wishing they were yours.
I have loved and lost
and saw God in a graveyard;
come down from dopamine dreams
to black widows in my sheets.
I have tried and failed and given up,
found the one mistake
I'll always make
and the one perfume I'll always hate.
I lost a war
I never had the guts to fight.
So this is Christmas, John,
and I'm still a mess.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
deeply swaddled
in troubled sleep
covered in
blankets
soaked
with woe
vast crushing stones
of daytime vexations
wring out
the very last
drops of aching
night sweats
a constricting
conscience
strangles
the possibility
of rest
eruptive
violent
struggles
subverts
a desperate
restoration
this damnable
listless sleep
yet in the
nadir of torment
as another
bleak daybreak
creeps closer
a fluttering
voice
hovers
to whisper
courageous
dreamscapes
into my
drowsy ear
"don't be afraid,
I am with you
commanding
the help of
an army
of angels
10,000
strong!"
these are
the days
of miracles
and wonder
don't cry
no more
Paul Simon:
Boy in the Bubble
Happy Birthday
Paul Simon
Jacobs Dream
Marc Chagall
jbm
Oakland
10/13/11
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
For all these years,
One lesson learnt:
The Line:
Pioned.
The ethereal days:
Forgotten.
The stones and the grass:
Substantial.
Every vision, henceforth,
A mark.
You are a venerable student of The Line,
Why not see it as Peter Paul Rubens saw it?
Why not see it as Osman saw it?
Why not see it as Rembrandt saw it?
Why not see it as old Blake saw it?
Why not see it as Sandro saw it?
Why not see it as Hermes Trismegistus saw it?
Why not see it as old Palmer saw it?
Why not see it as Marc Chagall saw it?
Why not see it as Jackson ******* saw it?
Why not see it as Hiram Abiff saw it?
A vision of The Line,
As the old masters saw it.
Come,
Let us sit.
Let us burn firewood.
Let us practice The Line within chambers of the mind.
If you remain studious, deep into the night,
You shall hold the mark.
You shall part the waters.
You shall move between the swells.
You shall till the earth,
Striking iron against iron,
Creating new Lines!
And when you master the six realms of sight,
And wear the seven, sacred heads in the afterlife,
Remember Hermes Trismegistus
And those who stand at the centre of The Line.
Dec 2, 2022
Dec 2, 2022 at 8:13 PM UTC
We rarely go drunk, or perhaps that is I, when I told Marc that all people are nearly up on exits
and barely exists now is feeling – he started swinging a running joke between the two of us
facing the planetesimal – lights their strobes of secret I am on my 7th beer and still nothing
when being listened to by frantic fret of fear because indulgence is key to demise
when it is said to pull apart but didn’t, I halved the 7th beer and felt my gut cloy itself with
the muck of fat from pork rind and stale chicken
I deem myself incompetent in the slug, gild of attendance: freckled wall with dotted red,
linoleum plastered, defaced somewhat, Marc moves to Hannah and I further
the dark with my groping hands – I do not smoke inside my car.
Ortigas is unusually dull, minutes trickle slow like *** or un-sex,
whichever it may, I quickly said as I stole the mic from his hand the words I imagine
to become filled with the purpose of frayed upon exactitudes.
He always brings his knife with him and I always ask him even if I knew
that it’s somewhere in his acid-washed jeans – I have always been fascinated
by the lives made better or worse by knives. I remember Gabriel and I talking
about Holden Caufield when all we ever wanted was to fall
immensely in love with girls we chase around in sophomore year, Gabriel
I do not know where you are and listening to Radiohead now reminds me of
something strange with unwilling potential; perennial silence permeates
Ortigas and somewhere a couple is hot and *******
whereas I, asleep on my 9th beer, probably my last,
willing to give up for a laugh or some sense of place
while I hear them all
laughing in front of my parked car, poking fun at something
I can barely identify.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 12:23 AM UTC
Oh queen! One of unjust passion
who leaves a gaping hole in my chest
With your two hands
One holding my beating heart
And the other a knife-
That rains down-
Down! From the heavens and impales with such sadness
With such ferocity, the damage is done
And with a single blow, the passion is over
Gone! As if never before seen again...
And in an instant, you destroy the living being that once loved you so dearly
Marc Anthony, a Roman conquerer
Whom to you was a lover, an overseas companion
Who captured your heart and womanly desires
Was just a mere mortal, in the end...
Undoubtedly imperfect for your ambitions
It pains one, oh dear Cleopatra
That our ways will more than likely
never cross again.
Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 2:01 PM UTC
We argued over that Marc Bolan record
That I knew wasn’t mine anyway
We argued over that Marc Bolan record
It’s my demented way of passing the day
I love to see the lines on your forehead appear
They run so incredibly deep
I love to see the lines on your forehead, my dear
When you’ve got the bit between your teeth
So when I hear ride a white swan
I can’t help but think of your face
Fighting your corner for T.Rex
That cosmic dancer in outer space
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 10:35 AM UTC
The mainstay of guests,
Their backs against chairs
That are backed against walls,
Readily seated and settled
Into tight knit sub communities
And discussion cells…
Thrashing out social failings
And political ineptitudes
Gleaned from broadsheets
And RT News updates,
Mumbling agreements
Or gentle dissents,
Some too ****** to participate
(should have “passed the kouchie
‘pon the left hand side”).
One spills red wine onto white cloth
And they all laugh longer than necessary
About the irony of it all
Even though there was no irony
In the situation to begin with.
There are a small handful of male guests
That I feel I could get along with.
I give way in the doorway
For the hostess to deliver nibbles.
There are a handful of female guests
That I think I’d like to ****
(the hostess included),
But none of this allays the reluctance
To step through the threshold.
The hostess exits the room
As I pin myself to the hallway wall,
“It could be you”, I think,
And try to relay this through a raised eyebrow smile
That goes unnoticed.
I attempt my break in
Just as the conversation turns to
The importance of contemporary art
In modern society
And the relevance of Jim Morrison’s poetry
In the cerebral world of words.
I search audibly for a conversation
Centred around Adele’s latest album release…
And I NEVER, on a good day, want to talk about THAT.
In for a penny, I take the step with a fuzzy indifference
And am drawn to a hand extending the offer of a spliff,
And to the ***** of empty wine glass on full bottle,
And a “will you, won’t you?” expression,
And I trip and fall over a synthetic fur rug
Lying, recumbent, too scared to take my eyes
Off the pendulum light bulb that hovers above me
And all I can think is that the hallway
Was a much safer place to be.
Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 5:39 AM UTC