A life hung on a rail that spans the day’s
Fragrance and soaks up only the sweat of itself;
Mindful of falling, but slightly too strong to
Give in and let go, even if a spill to the perfumes
Below would improve its circumstances.
Aware that the basin is clinically clean,
And set to be steamed every hour, and the hands
Held open, with industrial soap, do so awaiting
A slip; compelling the elevation to cloud your mind
And send you to their mentored stadium,
Full of the willing, who shift their positions
Too easily and try to edify you to the same; whose
Words blast out the distinctions of the day
And quote what they hope will be honoured when
Tomorrow bothers to follow their tales.
A world turned on its axis, its spin halted,
Poles vaulted, creatures hunted to the brink of its
Stinking cities where their plight is pitied by
The rich and cause hoarding, and any fondness, any
Bond is forged in order to avoid such fate.
Allegiances squeezed from the clay and
Shaped into permanently glazed pillars of salt,
Hoping to exploit the flavours found in the
Earth to their ends and lengthen their stay and
Earn for their journey a union card.
And a clear bead leaps from the borders
Of your head and hair and proceeds to roll down
Wards, and just as this drop is set to stop it
Falls, and if you’ve got to, you really have to, then
There’s no option but simple laughter.
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