the-un-repair-ables


hopelessness







isn’t much life

durable or otherwise

half slumped half bent

in persistent armchairs




swilled with daytime

it’s drudgery, may as well

be a coma victim or lain

out for worms to suck




there’s nothing reclusive

about distilled quiet, it’s

a painful sound of nothing

a murder without commitment




it just is, a pollution of

rotten thumbs all trying

to page thru’ the eulogy

that’s trite and way too skinny




there were no blasts of

excitement no rewarded

earlier years only the drab

of utter disappointment




crow at the nearly thin

window endeavours to

look smart in a soot

blamed overcoat




ink deep stares lively

yet lifeless somehow,

a stillness familiar bored

with and succeeds to the




crammed rain threatening

sky, untidy bruises full of

wet to share, nine thirty

morning moans grim ulcers




colour discolours and the

ceiling lowers like a matter

of fact coffin lid, concerned

with who will never visit?




knowing there will none

accompanying no one,

tea that has lost it’s taste

drowned in the gone off




nitrates of loneliness,

gasping prospers don’t

be fooled the lung doesn’t

care and yearns shallower




and finally, someday

unstoppered for the

attending officer to

mull over




what will the coroner think?

amusement or reflux

pity? summed up succinctly

by ink in a tell tale box




ten twenty seven, mildew

mugs another corner, the

letterbox opens it’s grin and

slobbers out a summons




for some unpaid ghost,

pile up as tiny hills

for a spider to contest

with




eyelids bury themselves

but dreams won’t gather

and entire thoughts

molest their fester




fodder for chairs to

stare unaware outwards

indistinct and dull

interference on repeat




unintelligible pulp vomits

up thru’ the television

screen, conniving

participation, let’s waste




a lifetime, there were

plentiful in heydays gone

and devoured, simply

cannot remember




someone i think i loved

that fizzed thru’ out all

of my veins, scarcely can’t

quite finger or place it




was it a feint narrative a

displaced echo? a favourite

film where all the characters

were dreamy and in one




another’s singing bones?

could have been an illness

visited, repairing then

bleaching it’s memory




doorbell stabs at thinking,

don’t move as too covered

in roots, some are sinking

seeking the devil himself




time forages from my time

am easy as a clock that

has lost it’s stride, take

quicker if needs be




makes slipping into whatever

easier, thirsty? but thirst

implies longing and there

isn’t any such yearning




and now is borrowing

it’s bland self, am over

and done with please,

please stop borrowing




me

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