"tutted" poems
Ticking the days off was exciting
Yet became a living nightmare
She’d had an invitation to the ball
She now worried how to get there.
It was the End of Year Fairies Ball
Where the best of the fairies went.
She’d got her gown, her fairy shoes
And had made her rose petal scent.
She had chosen pale green for her dress
And had sewn buttercups to the hem.
Little golden flowers cascaded down her
With tiny leaves still attached to the stem.
She had a buttercup upside down on her head
With golden thread under her chin
Daisies draped from her arms held tight
By a tiny golden wrist pin.
She looked adorable but so did the others
They all looked like a story from a fairytale
Nerves sometimes got the better of her
So the breathing slowed down, a slow exhale.
The buttercup fairy looked divine as she did
Always and mingled, taking her time
She ate raspberry pips and drank blossom juice
And had her first sample of apple wine.
She sat under an acorn and arranged her wings
A robin provided a pillow for her which was nice
Before he knew it she had fallen to sleep
But was she about to pay the upmost price.
She had missed the best dressed fairy time
When all fairies were judged by the chief elf
Instead this tipsy little fairy fast asleep
And was sitting on a very expensive shelf.
She awoke with the sound of little bells
Announcing the winner of the best dress
She tutted at the robin for not waking her
She as angry because now she was in a mess.
She now wore a face as long as a fiddle
And did not care about anyone or thing
She had prepared for this day since the
Beginning of this year’s spring.
The moral of her story don’t nestle
Next to a naughty little robin with fluffed chest
Otherwise you fall to sleep all afternoon
And then end up seriously depressed.
The buttercup fairy found some comfort
In a super little bar under a mushroom
And smashed her way through too much wine
Which for now ended her doom and gloom.
Staggering her way home in the early hours
Singing over the blackbird’s morning tune
She perched herself under an oak leaf
And slept until the new light of the moon
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 3:34 AM UTC
my mum used to joke
that my eyes would turn square
if i looked at pixels too long.
i remember the scare
that my pupils would bend
into inky black stamps,
and my retinas bleached
from the machinery glow.
that i would wander the streets
only for children to point
and scream
while their own mothers tutted
'you still want that playstation
for christmas?'
now i'm grown up
and that vision has died,
as the streets are all littered
with others, square-eyed.
i can imagine their
xylophone skeletons as
their fingers tap fast
on the tiny blue screens;
it's no wonder we aren't
very good with
eye contact.
so
i'm sorry mum,
we've all been entrapped
in this pixellated blur
of technological time lapse.
and i guess all these
square pegs can't fit
into the round holes
that they used to be,
in a world that we cannot
remember.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
Shrouded in deep purple fear and billowing clouds of crimson shame,
I sat on the floor, a trembling moth in still air.
I swallowed. The taste of bile remained.
My warmth flowed out of my body into the icy bathroom tiles, escaping rapidly through cracks in my split-open soul.
She sat beside me, quiet, waiting.
After an eternity, I nodded to her with a shaky breath.
She helped me gently off the floor and guided me to her bed, tucking herself behind me to become my tight cocoon.
With my head rested against her chest, I heard her blood pounding through her, but her breaths were slow, controlled.
The fibers of my muscles remained tense, straining to compensate for my spirit - raw, exposed, vulnerable.
Her small, soft fingers ran through my tangled hair,
drips of golden honey appearing as she began to hum.
Her radiant honey oozed from the smooth, full notes of her voice and dripped between sharp fragments of my shattered porcelain.
The clock tutted at us from the wall, approaching the third hour of morning, but she held my shards together tenderly and unhurried.
The fight drained from me as she sang her sweet melody.
A puddle of purple and crimson beneath me. Pieces, tenderly held.
Her pure, glimmering honey meandered through my etched cracks and between my too-prominent ribs to replace my purple and crimson.
She sang the life back to me, held me together with her sturdy grace.
She waited as the liquid gold began to solidify and I began to feel closer to whole once more.
She - who loves me laughing, who loves me dancing - loves me messy, too.
Mar 22, 2022
Mar 22, 2022 at 6:17 PM UTC
During the night, a dreadful night, a mole dug deep
deep and around my garden that I love
This cheeky mole then had the nerve to stop burrowing
and then surface to check the damage from above.
Up came his velvety head and sniffed the fresh air
parting my newly laid lawn like a digger.
Now he appears to be smiling the cheeky scoundrel
He is making the problem a whole lot bigger.
"Look what yo have done" I shouted "made a right mess
The piles of earth are everywhere with your coming and froing"
"With all due respect madam" sniffed the mole "what do
you expect when I cannot exactly see where I am going!"
"I have no map, no satellite navigation device, just my claws
I am just a mole and all that I can do is dig, I've no appliance
No shiny ***** no mechanical device, what do you expect
Honestly madam it is not exactly rocket science.
He tutted and rushed back down the hole leaving me
speechless and trying my best not to cry.
The mole had made his way underground by now next door
but my hard work was down the drain - I wonder why!
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 2:51 AM UTC
When Charlie was a young'un with a crayon and some paper
He would scribble til the paper ripped and the crayon turned to vapour
His mother would console him and she'd offer her advice
But just to drive the message home, she'd loudly sing it twice
Follow the lines, my boy, just follow the bleedin' lines
Just pick a side and stay there, always follow the lines
If you're not a fool then fake it
If you show your spine they'll break it
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
So when Charlie went to high school, how he tried to walk in stride
But the boredom of geometry provoked his naughty side
His professor would chastise him with a ruler and a cane
And, as an aid to memory, he sang him twice again
Follow the lines, young Charlie, you follow the blasted lines
Give it a try, you'll soon see, never cross over the lines
Don't be smart or play the joker
Aim for mainly mediocre
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
When assembling a wardrobe with his Allen key and spanner
He threw himself into his task in an overzealous manner
So when he called his father to report a broken bone
His old man tutted ruefully and sang right down the phone
Follow the lines now Charlie, just follow the ******* lines
Don't improvise or gamble, why didn't you follow the lines
Dodge unnecessary ructions
And adhere to the instructions
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
So in time, he raised a family, the lines etched in his head
One day he heard a buzzing from his aging garden shed
As he listened at the planking, how his face was drawn and long
For between the buzz and rustle, squeaked a tiny little song
Follow the lines, buzz-buzz, just follow the buzz-ing lines
Follow the bee before you, just buzz and follow the lines
Find the flowers when it's sunny
Fetch the nectar, make the honey
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
Buzz buzz
**
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
"Are the gods angry?"
she said with a laugh
as Vesuvius rumbled
with warnings advance.
I cuffed her behind,
but gently, and laughed:
"Lady bring me more wine
for my morning repast."
I had sup'd with old Pliny
just the evening before.
Admiral of the fleet
anchored safely offshore.
My vineyards are fruitful,
a source of fine wines.
and the olives, when pressed,
make a spread that's divine.
My Villa is handsome,
and I own many slaves.
so you see I've no use
for their Jesus who saves.
The top of the mountain
disappeared in a blast
Our homes are laid siege to
with pumice and ash.
The women are screaming
I hear a child cry.
I hear prayers vainly offered
to an uncaring sky.
The air is quite thick
My lungs are oppressed.
My Villa is burning
along with the rest.
With a cloth on my mouth,
I race to the shore,
hoping, dear Pliny,
to see you once more.
I look on with horror
as burning stone blocks my path
I crouch by a wall
as my last moments pass.
* * * * *
The Archeologist tutted
"Well, who have we here?
"Clearly no slave
from this ring it appears."
" I am Lucius Flavius."
My Lemure would remind.
but I'm like a statue
and mute for all time.
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
Lydia and I
ride a train
from the Elephant & Castle
to Victoria train station
we love the smell
of the steam train
that takes us there
the white and grey smoke
passes by
the train window
what did your mum say
when you asked
about going to Victoria
with me?
I ask
Lydia says
she looked at me
as if I’d farted
then said
asked your father
so I did and he said
-being sober and in
a good mood-
don't you two go
and elope away
together at least not
until you're 16 years old
and he laughed
and Mum just raised
her eyebrows
and tut-tutted
and Dad said
mind how you go
with that Benny boy
she smiles
and I take in
her straight cut hair
and the dull green dress
and grey cardigan
that's good
I say
I like it
when she's happy
and we get out
at Victoria and walk
along to the nearest seat
and sit down
to watch the steam trains
coming and going
maybe I’ll be
a train driver
when I’m older
I say
to be able to breathe
in the smell
of steam trains
and the sound of trains
and see them
Lydia says
black ones
and blue ones
and green ones
maybe I can be
a train driver too
she adds
do you think so?
yes that'd be good
I say
we can go off
to Scotland
and see the big castle
and see men
in kilts
she says
we watch
as the steam train
takes off
the power of the train
the puff and shush
and shush
and she takes
my hand
and it's warm
on this little date
us two kids
of 8.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
I saw the germ seed of civilisation
In the metro today
Between Châtelet and St. Michel
It was stuffy
And the ones already in
Made it hard for others to get in
We formed a barricade
Made it look more stuffy
Than it was
Then tutted
Or rolled eyes when others tried to get in
There was a brotherhood
Even though all we had shared
Was the journey
Between Châtelet and St. Michel
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
Reach for the sky
Ingrid said
as you and she
swung on the swings
in Jail Park
your feet pointed skyward
your hands gripping
the metal linked rings
the wooden seat
beneath you
and the sky
was a fine
summery blue
clouds were white
as engine puffed smoke
and you said
my old man
nicked money
from my blue
money box
I never saw him
I just heard him
early this morning
with the rattling
as he used a knife
to eject the coins
Ingrid gaped at you
as she swung
beside you
how much
did you have in there?
she asked
couple of quid
I expect
you said
now it's lighter
and rattles emptier
why did he do that?
she asked
you pushed your feet higher
and bent forward
on the swing's chains
and up you went
reaching for the sun
he needed it
for a packet of cigarettes
I guess
you said
but that's thieving
she said
he'd say
it was liberating
coins for a purpose
of need
you smiled
has a way with words
if not much else
you said
you studied Ingrid
as she swung at your side
her black scuffed shoes
the grey once white socks
the sleeveless
stained flowery dress
which came to the knees
her dark hair
pinned back
with the metal grips
her thin wired spectacles
with her large eyes
staring at you
if I'm ever given money
she said
for birthday
or whatever
my dad takes it
and says I've been
too bad to have it
once he almost broke
my fingers open
to take coins
I was gripping
you tut-tutted
and looked away
as you rose higher
the trees of the park
and bushes
seemed miles
beneath you
and the other kids
on the see-saws
and ropes and sandpit
or on the tall
metal slide
seemed so small
and you remembered the time
Ingrid fell off
the ropes
and grazed her knees
and you helped her up
and helped her hobble
to the first-aid room
near the toilets
and the stern
middle aged woman
in charge there
helped her into the room
and sat her on a chair
and you stood there staring
made a mess of these knees
ain't you deary
the woman said
best get you cleaned up
and she used cotton wool
and some purple smelly stuff
to clean away
the stones and dirt
and blood
and as she lifted the leg
she saw a blue green bruise
on Ingrid's thigh
you have been in the wars
the woman said
with a shake
of her blonde
haired head
not wars
you thought
her old man's belt
more like
but never said
and Ingrid cried still
her face red
the woman's plump pink fingers
cleaning the knees
the blood seeping through
the cotton wool
and you
just standing there
giving it
your concerned
and boyish stare.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
James Dean died that year and Mother was in the loony bin as Father termed it but he wouldn’t take you or Joey to see her because he said There’s no point kids she sits staring at walls and talking to herself or gets abusive and comes out with the most choicest of words which I wouldn’t want you to hear and besides it’s too far for you to go on a weekend and you’d only get upset especially you Lizzie you’d be in tears before they shut the **** door of the ward and all those other drooling fools there and that was it you didn’t get to see her not a peek just what he said she did or said or didn’t say or do but you wanted so much to see her and have her touch your cheek and be home again and tuck you up in bed and tell you the stories that she used to do all sat up on the end of the bed reading from some book she had or making up stories right out of her head and you remember the time she sneaked you and Joey up some supper when Father said no you’d been bad and that you had to go to bed without any supper and be careful Christ didn’t send you to Hell and damnation but Mother brought the supper anyway and listened out in case Father came up but he never did he was too busy drinking or playing cards with the Smiths from across the fields who stank of ***** and sweat and laughed too loud and swore and smoke cheap cigarettes and so Mother’d sit on the end of the bed watching you eat and having that bright eyed look about her and that small smile she had when she thought you were happy but then she became odd and out of it and talked to people who weren’t there or went for long walks and got lost and the cops had to bring her back again and again and once she sat in the bath fully clothed saying she didn’t want Christ seeing her in **** or James Dean to touch her up with his ghostly fingers and so Father took her to see some quack who examined her and talked to her as best he could until she tried to gouge out his eyes with his pen and Father had to retrain her and hold her down on the floor until some auxiliaries from down the hospital hall came bounding in and suited her up in a jacket that tied at the back and you never saw her again after that morning with her getting into Father’s car with her dark eyes staring and two of her fingers giving an up you sign to the passing neighbours who stood open mouthed and tut-tutted and you and Joey watching the car go off and over the horizon like a crazy ship going out to sea with one lone captain and a wild eyed woman as his only crew and she looking back waving her two finger in the air at Joey and you.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
Sister Paul
walked across
the green lawn
her flowing
black habit
billowing
behind her
then she stopped
right in front
of the white
steel table
where Anne
and the Kid
were sitting
eating tea
(sandwiches
cut into
triangles
and pieces
of iced cake)
I've been told
the nun said
that you two
have said things
to Lulu
and young Colm
that were rude
and unkind
is that right?
when was this?
Anne asked
after the
afternoon
siesta
the nun said
don't recall
anything
Anne said
do you Kid?
Benedict
shook his head
Sister Paul
looked at him
it's a sin
to tell lies
Benedict
the nun said
are you sure
you recall
nothing of
what I've said?
but sister
are all lies
said sinful?
Anne asked
yes they are
the nun said
so if I
said you were
beautiful
would that be
sinful too?
Anne said
Sister Paul
tut-tutted
you are not
so clever
as you think
the nun said
so you too
can tell lies
Anne said
the nun stood
taking in
the young girl
sitting
her one leg
poking out
of a red
patterned skirt
her leg stump
visible
where the skirt
had ridden
up the thigh
don't be cruel
to other
children here
with your words
the nun said
Anne stared
at the nun
then picked up
a sandwich
and ate it
as noisy
as she could
Benedict
sipped his tea
as the nun
walked away
and wondered
how easy
it would be
for the nun
to pull up
all that gear
(the habit)
to go ***
that's a good
example
Skinny Kid
of Christian
love and such
did you see
her hard face?
what love there?
where God's grace?
Benedict
said nothing
just sipped tea
(warm and sweet)
recalling
Sister Paul's
long and white
naked feet.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 1:57 AM UTC
‘I’m tired, so tired,’ said Jonathon Black,
‘I can hardly stay awake,’
His wife just stared at the back of his head,
Went back to her currant cake.
She’d heard it all a million times
Was bored with the things he’d say,
She wished he’d pack up his things, sometimes
And quietly go away.
But Jonathon sat in his bamboo chair
And stared at the world outside,
He used to be full of energy,
But something inside him died,
He lived in the shadows of tides and scenes
That were conjured behind his eyes,
The throwaway remnants of others dreams
He’d capture in tears and sighs.
He spent the afternoon nodding off
Then woke with a startled cry,
‘You wouldn’t believe what I saw just now,
Right out of a clear blue sky.
A shadow crept from the bushes there
And it killed young Andrew Deems,’
Giselle had tutted and shook her head,
‘Just one of your stupid dreams!’
The woods, a favourite lovers spot
Stretched out from their own back door,
Giselle would go with a basket there
Looking for mushroom spore.
‘I saw you out in the woods today
But nothing is what it seems,’
She turned and snapped at her husband’s back,
‘Just keep me out of your dreams!’
‘It isn’t a question of that,’ he said,
‘I can’t control what I see,
Wherever a person’s thoughts are at
They keep on coming to me.
Even the strangers that walk on past
Have secrets they send in beams,
You’d think that they would be safe from me
But I’m the waker of dreams.
Giselle had wandered off to the woods
With her basket held on high,
While Jonathon found and loaded his gun,
Went after her with a sigh,
He found her there in a shady nook
In a huddle with Andrew Deems,
‘I thought I’d warned you, often enough,
You didn’t believe, it seems!’
He shot the lad as he tried to run
Then dropped the gun to his side,
‘All I could see in his dreams was you,
But now, that dream has died.’
‘And what will you do with me,’ said she
And bit her lip ‘til it bled,
‘I’m tired, so tired,’ said Jonathon Black
Then put the gun to his head.
David Lewis Paget
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
"Ouch!" said the boy as the red started flowing
From the tip of his finger that through glove was showing
His finger found mouth, which ****** out the blood
Wrapping 'round digit and cloth and cold mud
He glanced side to side to see if they saw
But the people, like streets, would come out with the thaw
The redness still flowed and it dripped in the snow
The boy didn't care; he knew just where to go
He tugged at his pants and fixed his torn hat
His jacket surrounded like skin on stray cat
The footsteps he took were with strength and conviction
Like the master of dungeons in his favorite fiction
He went toward the beacon: The trashcan on fire
His savior would be there by bright, burning, pyre
He looked 'round the checkpoint, but failed to find
The man who would always give peace to the mind
Others were there; they were kin of his kin
The men with hair matted and open-scabbed skin
But the man who would help him, the man who had cared
His father, was absent, and the boy was now scared
His finger, still bleeding, was numb with the cold
The boy looked around for the man who would hold
A man saw the boy, and gave a half-hearted shout
Boy eagerly waited for man to come out
The little crowd parted, and his father appeared
He looked a bit different, maybe it was the beard?
Before it was long, like an overgrown lawn
Today he had **** whacked, and the face-rug was gone
The man looked at boy, at finger with red
He tutted and clasped a bare hand to his head
Man reached into pocket and pulled out a band-aid
Boy peeled his glove back to receive the hand-aid
The man covered cut and pulled the boy close
This hug was his medicine; the desired dose
The man took boy's hand and led him away
From the fire in trashcan; he said they couldn't stay
The man told the boy, "Guess what I've got?
I've got us a room! And we've both got a cot!"
Son looked to Father; he'd really come through
And they walked off in the light of the love beaming true
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 12:50 AM UTC
...
I let myself exhale,
And then lifted my head
And saw you
Your face a mixture of pleasure
And Worry
All captured between
the soft glow
Of a lamp that did not belong to us
And a shadow
that belonged to the night sky.
Furrowed brows, flushed cheeks, and a smile that became unsteadied by a blossoming happiness, and dread.
I knew it all too well myself.
"Thinking about old fears?" I asked, trying to balance softness with the intensity of the conversation I was embarking. My breathing was calm and even, but I felt buzzing underneath my skin, goosebumps sprinkling across exposed flesh in waves.
Your vulnerability has often asked for mine in return.
You nodded, "Yeah," with a too perfect smile still on your face, your eyes shut tight, and your head turned to the side,
As if you were telling yourself that you were being ridiculous before I could.
How many times have you had that silent conversation with yourself?
I would have asked... but that was for another time.
Instead, I moved my head a little to the side to mimic yours, and brushed my nose against yours, pressed my lips against yours, and sighed.
I think I said I loved you.
I think I gave another "my heart belongs to you" speech,
I think the contents of my heart overflowed into yours,
But all I remembered was seeing you cry.
Your big stormy eyes welled up, and tears fell, and you gasped
And hips almost stirred again
Almost went looking for the friction we created.
I slid my thumb across your face, tutted lowly into your ear, and let my full weight rest ontop of you.
My arms wrapped around the valleys of your torso, clutching you closer as the outlines that separated our bodies began to disappear.
Until your bones became my bones,
And the wounds you were tending to became my healed scars.
We only had days to be together, but our nights were infinite.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 10:31 PM UTC
Cheri can’t wait for the shop to shut,
She’s been there since eight. Now she’s
Tired and her feet ache and there is an
Itch beneath her right *** where the cheap
Bra holds and she wants to urinate before
It’s too late. She stands by the door,
Holding it back, for a customer to leave,
Some old biddy who’s moaned and
Grumbled and tut-tutted all the while
There. Cheri doesn’t care; she’s dying
For a **** She pushes her knees tight
Together, cursing beneath her breath
The old biddy with her bags and moans.
She puts on her fake smile, but all the
While, her bladder’s weakening, the urge
To *** is taking hold. Now the old biddy
Has stopped to chat with some old dear
In a flowery hat. She knocks her knees
Together to distract from the urge to ***
Fact. She grips the handle of the door,
Hurry up, she says beneath her breath,
Or I’ll wet the floor. The old biddy nods
And agrees to the talking hag with the hat.
That’s it, Cheri senses; on top of that, she
Needs to **** She takes a deep breath and
Releases the handle of the door and runs
Through the shop, by the old biddy and
The talking hag with the flowery hat,
By the manageress with her rising brow,
Into the back, and somehow into the toilet,
Shutting the door, pushing underwear down
To the floor, she sits and pees and sighs and
***** Cheri doesn’t care if the shop’s busy
Or the customers moan; there comes a time
In a shop girl’s life when she needs to be
Alone, when she needs to contemplate on
Her life or loves or love affairs or getting
Married or when she’ll next have *** or
Not or if at all. Cheri can’t wait for the shop
To close, for the door to lock at six o’ clock.
She waits and sighs and closes her eyes and
Hears the inward tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 4:02 PM UTC
Furthermore, began St Anne by the Sea,
And a spotty Doctor Newcastle got down on one knee.
I hear the old folk *******
I hear ducks up the chimney.
I'm eating hymn books and confetti;
Sweating mud now.
The very nearly possible was there;
Lovely laughing Uncle April was there;
The plump thigh from your thrilling island was there also;
The Balsam Boy,
The basil canary,
The mustard customer from Rhyl
We dated a wasting blue on the old shopping hill.
You had been with the Superintendent of cream
In the back rooms of Matthew August Ltd.
In private I was brown because of my tinnitus.
My child was only half written
According to those forty enormous Liverpools,
According to those three vaginal cannonballs.
Horace Horace and his delicious old porridge was the inability setting.
Thought clumsiness was in fashion back then.
Upstairs could hear the downstairs *******
Now mock Tudor glands have all the critical opportunity
And hands pull on my circular feet.
Glum songbirds mingle in the dissapointment larder
Of the Transport Office between Mr Kane and his ***** milk.
The tutted Beryl train accounts for neither the sad 13,
Nor the burgundy drums of Cologne.
The dark doodad brigade broke the Parisian child pipes,
So now the garnet ***** are a very dusty parcel indeed.
And Sir Billick’s magnificent bottom of forty years has beckoned.
What delicious and capable spondees!
What fruits we acquired for Captain Mary!
We remember nothing therefore.
Now we must wash our spectacles
And take sympathetic musical suggestion for our tugged Nightingale methods.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 8:08 AM UTC
She was made of midnight's wings
black in velvet where the stars hung
as I broke ranks to asked her to stay
the armies of light shook their heads and tutted
I threw myself to her feet
I pleaded for her to stay
I told her I would go in her place
as long as she would stay
She looked at me
with *** eyes
just like that time
we bedded each other
This was not a perfect ending
to wrench my heart
from where it fell
by my loves feet
Her moment
my moment
was broken
like a forgotten mirror
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
And I passed people on the highway
in front of a pile of their belongings
spilled upon the shoulder
from a bloated pickup bed
At church someone told the tale
and added
that motorists honked at the owners
when they tried to walk back to where the spill began
and collect their mattress love seat
lamp shade stuffed giraffe
"like they ain't already got enough problems"
one sagely concluded
And when I walked by
no one honked at the arm leg
kidney ear patella
fourth metatarsal shattered soul
ejected at high speed
as I fell apart
parts dropped like breadcrumbs
too something to stop and pick them up
No one gaped
no one braked
I suppose no one was inconvenienced
by my disintegration
Some days I'd rather be a problem
four tires facing up
rolled over in a ditch
beyond the mangled guard rail
honking cars audience to my broadcast indignation
desperation
loneliness
regret
I'd rather be a byword some days
as kind church ladies tut-tutted over my predicament
and shushed the busy, impatient drivers
Yeah -- like I ain't already got enough problems
Right? See?
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 2:05 PM UTC
Outside of time there was time
Outside of space there was space
Rolling out my scroll the other
Selecting access point
I pushing forwards, to see
The other tutted.
Inside the eye
In greyness I
Pushing inwards to know
I was ejected
To find my own way home.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 6:59 AM UTC