(1) Plotting against the world (with notes on the subjects)

I’m baking the cake to bloat the guts of all the innocent and make them aware of my agony…
yes, I’ll teach them…
and hand in hand my leaders do well to provoke me. Poor is the ladder of life. Yes, the standing on my bare feet and a wild kick at…
so silence is this wonderful innocence, and move and move with smiles and promises, taking their toll. Black and white neutrality. Food to build rockets on… wonderment…
the great void doth well to take it all in. He’s sketching this in his little black book standing atop the cliffs of self-made. Self-aware. Self-same…
yesterday’s repetition…
damned yes, my cronies in the caves of Tora Bora. Shadows of my conscience, cooks in my kitchen…
frustrated whore bastards of my mother’s life story…
just sketching now, to be free of the initial homework. (Yours truly, the victims)


(2) On the fate of losing muscle to the page

On a heat wafted beach, he grips page so thin and bending all the which ways…
he activates the machinery enough to grind through the rigmarole to turn within an inch and a squeak…
THE PAGE. Yes, here it be a sweep across day…
Ultra-luminescent day…
as a squeegee across the bathroom floor. The scrape and take to channel the excess. Tears of the times.
and cutting and blocking of jet vapours and cloud divide and hide the backdrop to a shallow crescendo of days and lives unfocussed/untold…
cloud now crossing me eye…
I’m in the middle of the turn, while in the other hand the pen is lifted just so…
or eventually, low and behold the jock has come home to roost.
Iron hard gut blobs jell-like under thought of losing self…
and he may be seen writing now, yes…
despite the sun scorcher of that day and the threat of being labelled a has been…
he sit unashamed.


(3) Sun shimmers wet bottle dew

And the no obligation
seems to engulf or perhaps embrace
the blooming endless blue sky, reach
reaching up beyond all we must return to
lazy roll of time on your side
endless and yet finished
promising while already consumed
the day I command
the day I abuse
when so many plans become the song of birds, bottles of beer, distant drone of traffic, a dove or two
blue and blues
and then the push of what has to be seen to
the job… THE JOB
that set piece of play that decides all
so now returning to the harbour
framed by the law
sit here, hold onto this and do that
outside day ticks on
oblivious


(4) Taking an hour in inches

Boy he mock the jazzy build-up of experience. He lie back and allow this tide of time to engulf
the timeless heart…
wind play melody to it too, and bother bother bother me…
fetters of childish inclination could be the only wise men in this game as come well sun up he still twiddling thumbs and head in hands and more bugger bugger…
so only God hear it now, the calling from within…
whip, swish, light stream, filter grey cloud, chop chop sounds, crank up machines, go about another day come night come day follow the marked areas and careful not to stray off the path. What time was work now and moments of holiday be only small hiccups in the program…
A joker he found much standing back to looksee from afar giving room for immortality giving room to sing a song or two yes just enough to keep the smile from dying on his lips. He’ll fold his arms and yet still be playing his part…
the repetition of the day in, day in, day in surfing on the grind and must of good citizenship. wondering how one can ever be removed from the great push from behind. (Ever stand aside and just be the watcher?)
Jeez, so much struggle I hear tell as me lie with ear to the (soon to be mowed) grassy ground and bite my tongue in anticipation of whatever new stuff to come…
pretty booming of the time
come mark the little frame
to put us in our place
hear it chatter chatter in my mind
the race of kids thinking its theirs for the taking
the bundle of silly sequences
each one not giving in to spaces of my infinite sorrow
endless sin.

(So complete are these frames)

Copyright © Graeme Perrin 2023