Images jostle for attention as the poet talks of the sorrow of loneliness, likens deceit to a bleeding truth, ruminates about the curse of ‘plastic’ and lots more.
Not intending what is meant, a bleeding truth,
brain-shaming decisions is all that is left,
coloured diaries crucified the overbearing trash
of bringing the death star to heel over breakfast.
Nothing less desolate than being alone,
a pen and a can assuages the minutiae of sorrow,
going like trains to go to the picnicked call,
overly fashionable gulps down the reworked pizza.
Making the infinite happy, whereupon is the curse?
plastic under unforgiving plastic soars undercurrent,
once was destination, drinking out of mugs
salt of the universe sails past the reckoning.
Objectified to oblivion, unfair to its subject,
stuffed to the inevitable no other man can reach,
the sane radio comforting in its’ tourist glare
new and selected ideation rushes to the finish.
Packed with incessant ice cubes, system broken down,
glitching for favour in a volunteer’s effort
tired, in a piece of work, fathoming discipline,
the promised work nicely decorates the corner.
This distastes the sweetness, traditional medicine
subjecting the adopted heart, to quell inferiority
scanning past the appropriate house for a response
joking aside, dressed down like the extinguished.