Knowing

Dipped out

Horizontal 

The flour goes every which way

When I’m not there

What’s the blessing

And what’s the curse of being
The one
Who makes the wheels turn
And knows the whereabouts
Of the small sacred objects
Being at the center
Of the story of essentialness 
Then what would that person do
When wandering the periphery?
Is that a lonely freedom 
of not being needed?

Is that a mellow dose,
Sun square on the bed
And the time to watch it move?

doors

i know nothing of locked doors
closed doors even
as a child
my bedroom door was always open
too big for the frame
i was the eldest
but my brother got the door that closed
my father built our house
but he wouldn't fix my door
i dressed always hiding

because
my family knew nothing of knocking

and
i know nothing of boundaries

The Cause or Relevance

 

Selling here a lip serviced stab at persona
it's so easy to be loved that you're hated
but a soft heel at that.

Real ale, Melton Mowbray puritan
should be face down drowning in the
gravy with your bangers.

May the pens push you out 
from beneath the bus shelter
and you shiver.

May your blood turn grey,
dry out like the wax desiccated
on the sleeve of the Barbour.