Wednesday, 22 July 2009


Now the scene’s browbeaten
I can’t go on bleating
Otherwise I’ll sound like a child,
Constantly indicting itself,
For as I’ve been vetoed
The hum of comfort is
Offered on the understanding
That I continue to be so.

When I was in exile I had
Nothing in my pockets,
No sleeves to put stuff up, flip
Flops on my feet and only a
Metre of window to
Sleep and wake up to,
And I didn’t mingle where I lived
Or mention pursuing it.

My bookmarks were littered
With porn links, and I
Was sick of being critical,
Of being picked apart,
Remarked upon; if I called I got
Bawled at, if I didn’t I got cursed,
So I left the phone alone and
Avoided the worst.

But I’m still being difficult,
Actively typical, and it’s
Been witnessed, so as I chuff
Effusive words it appears
Middle age is being entered
And attempts to leave it will
Depend upon whether enough
Strength is crushed.

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