You, sir, fabricate to confabulate.
Extrapolate from estimates realities,
Statistics, certainties -
Give weight to sensation to fill space
And don’t even have the grace to spill it
When you’ve been caught slipping
Away from knowing into the boundless open
Of speculation,

It’s unhinged,
This fact forming.
If you don’t check it,
I fear you’ll lose all sense of existence,
Get lost in the thickness of mythopoesis,
Unreachable by anyone speaking truths -
Ostracized as result from the group,
On being unproofed.

Yet, if time you let
For silence to fill itself
Sounds would find their place.
Still, even if not
There is comfort in knowing
You have saved your face.

Look Again. And Again.

Orientation depends on perspective,
The angle at which the object is viewed,
The observers directive.
There’s dividends in knowing this,
Noticing where motive obscures derivative,
Halting promoting unwholly images,
Fragmenting reputation in leaving statements unfinished.
Out to interpretation.

Big Pitch

To who do I pitch a show in this town?
A fine idea my mind has imparted to I.
All I need is backing, a forum
And insurance.
We’ll have consenting, blindfolded adults
Placed at the furthermost points
Of a prefabricated house,
Then set it alight -
Call it ‘Burnout’.

Furnish the house with the
Most expensive of everything.
Hide cash prizes from
Foundation to beam.
The temptation being
To keep returning for other pieces -
Maybe one time too much
And, as consequence, burning up,
Or having the place fall in from above,
Crushing them to death,
Or some such mess.

Those who are reserved
Will get what they deserve.

A sort of triumphant, paradoxical,
Message for the audience -
A metaphor for life -

Things are lovely,
You want to acquire them,
But you must be careful not too
Get too immersed or you’ll
End up dead, overworked.
Having overspent yourself.

I Dont Even Know What That Means But I Love It

Everywhere I look,
Lately, I see
True Anarchy persisting.
Liberty of the self from
The pursuit of
Individual needs.
An actioning
Of moral standings.
No spilling over
Onto anothers empire.
Unless to provide
The necessary water
For their growing future.

Bastard Eyes

What an inconvenient time!
Sorry eyes, but if you don’t mind,
I’m trying to put myself right.
It is indeed proving tough,
Seeing as you keep filling up,
Making my body convulse.
Albeit result of impulse,
Though I’m conscious of your carry on,
I can’t control your flow at all.
Still, these inconvenient, bastard tears come.
The sum of all I’ve been pushing off,
To get on with life,
Just to remind me,
I’m not quite over this.
Not quite.
Nor will I be for some time.

You can be as actively positive as you like,
You can be sobbing and conscious it’s a waste of time,
And still be unable to stop crying.
It is hard to let go,
Harder even to admit that this is so.
But, if I could just stop your flow,
That I may let mine go,
Resume progress,
Get on and away from the gone by,
I’m sure I could put things right -
More adjust my filters,
That I may see my current path as the way of light.
Mindful of swallowing emotion,
Full knowing the truth of the situation.
But above all, getting on with my life.

Under Cover

Still can’t button a duvet
Without being ambushed by
My inability to run
A round button into
A small slice in fabric.
My fat fingers fumble
Even the concept,
Thumbing it til it swells,
Hardening to handling,
Hastening occurence.
But at least, each time,
I get through it.

Every single night,
I sleep,