Subroutine 51


No light weight pick up sticks or children’s game
these streets of age all look the pain we travel on
and along the way
that road of well versed stones speak to me of
skeletons and dead men’s bones
and harlequins that never win the coloured robe.

Global warming swarms
more food to feed the flame
that leaps and shouts out ‘who the hell am I’?
no wings, can’t fly
can’t feast on clouds that rule the sky
no name
more pain 
more streets and terraced vol au vents
more wants than needs 
the fire’s feeding well
and who the hell am I?

The game of jacks and random court cards
highway tightwires trapped in backyards
tripping through the cabbage patch
match this if you can,
the cooking pot that will not get hot
the trying man that does not try
the winds that wail but never cry
a merry go round
but why?

A rest, 
the day I test the temperature and paddle in just to be sure
it covers me
and the sea that doesn’t see will take me
to the place where blind men congregate
and wait for..
..but it’s far too late for me
whatever was meant that I should have seen
has been and gone.

Sticks more stones
no lack of mobile phones to spread the word of this disaster
stifling an insane desire to laugh at my own misfortune and already five before the hour of noon, when the Sun scallops lightly across the other sea of sky
I pull my socks up,don’t know why they ever fell
who can tell?
Not I.

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