poetry, trails of thought


It stemmed all the way back to way back when:

and then some more probably – though

his memory was poor on that.

And who knows how long it’d lasted?


When they went and painted him into a corner

was when – more than any time he ever

experienced – the corner they painted him into

seemed dark and closed down.

‘Cos the essence of his soul, what made him fly,

wasn’t closure or limitation or statutory

simplicity but keeping everything up in that air

where flying’s a breeze, and teasing

is fun, and everyone can have a ball of a time.


And if anything destroyed his desire to carry on,

and by this time it was clear they had his

measure on this,

then it was this closing down of a ball of a time

and this painting into dark corners of sensible

shit, and the predictability of dictating his words

so that – in truth and in boredom – what he

ended up writing

was precisely what they wanted in such a way

as they managed to show him exactly

how unpredictable he really wasn’t:

he was – in fact – exactly like any other …


(And that, too, was a sign of his playful

psychopathy – and who’d really have thunk it:

for sure they already did.)


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