No carers available
Roads full of cars but no one to carry you.
Its like lifts, I suppose,
when you need one
there’s none, none licensed to care
no one trained to see, no one qualified
to say what’s going on or hear or tell.
What have we been allowed to become
to allow such rigidity, regime, regs
-I’m not swinging a boot
so don’t swing a boot at me-
this is about common sense
common ground; commonism
and there’s nothing wrong with it,
being common. Just get in there
and care.
What is left; sobre mesa
how the sand has been walked on
like fingers on a fretboard;
an imprinted cacophony by the
eyeballing strains of the sea.
The sun like a rose wilting on a window sill
petal blue sky with the searchlight rays
beaming through cloud coming
‘joy and pain are like
sunshine and rain’
and there you are, in the mix
and here I am. And there is time
that took more to make less
was handed to us to make more with
but more what; we’re peering into bottles
to see what is left
and every breath
is death.
A hug is a hoist.
You may be your own man
but I am your own son.
A mug is a moisture
measurer and so the milk goes in.
You’ll go as you’ve gone;
indomitably dogmatic,
-hand-railed reality-
will eroded by habit,
pitted pathways of habitat;
home, where the mind is
plugged in, unvoiced.
There is no wood in this hole
yet no draught and no rush, nothing
ushering a soul to go through;
it’s just a void to avoid,
there to contemplate
as much as to ignore, swerve
with the staying put power of existence
but the doorway,
it detects you, rejects you
until you’re ready to be taken then
processes, scans-ascension
to a hall, scanning strangers
holding up names.
My Deerboy 