I’ll be standin’

Sittin’ down zoning out
again
No point taking a message
I’m no longer
switched on

Blank eyes inner black circles big
but I’ll be back at some point
to negotiate a coffee

But then I’ll be standin’

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I walked

I walked briefly
like an out of tune orchestra
was on a wheel’d stand
chasing me

Till my breath itself
became a livin’ thing
escaping faster than I could
recapture its form

Then I walked like
an awkward marionette
my strings woo’d to tort
or I was reluctantly
interacting

The funky chicken

Thinkin’

thinkin man ch

                Sitting to a chair
                 like a stereotype
                                      statue
 
     Looking for inspiration
          without perspiration
    thinking about thinking
                    while the clouds
                     talk to the birds
                            and the seas

forms less than words
more than unmeaning
whisper

Sundry Washoff

Sometimes the washing whizzes
around like a vertical roundabout of colours
sundry materials mashed by gravity and other
scientific forces and inasmuch
as I can be sure that socks are tougher in pairs
they could always weep over a lost twin
inasmuch as I care, but that my jeans remain
un-holed and un-tinted greyness is a comfort

Grey jeans black socks life in vertical centrifugal counterfeit parody