Another Evening. By CpSingleton © 2014
Gurgles of foul intent, down
Below the surface of the skin,
Plup, plup, up along the nerves,
Seeking an escape through
The chasm above the chin.
The self knows that it will do
Very little to ease the tension
Grinding and winding, like the
Mechanism of an iron maiden,
So we hide in the throne-room.
In this place, filled with pot and
Plastic mouldings, powders,
Scents and coloured assortments,
We find the peace to re-evaluate.
We connect the dots of the surreal
Acid spider’s wonky web.
We hear the wind and cars as
They fight for the right to win
Our ears attentions. Howling and
Hissing through the frosted window.
We use our need to express to
Block out the mind’s latest battle.
Its twisted, ham-fisted stomp
Across the quiet blossomed fields
We, only moments ago, lay in.
This is our pacifist fight back.
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