Wednesday, 20 October 2021

Extracts from:

the turquoise downspiral writer.

 

 

he kept repeating himself

         

( and he didn’t know )

 

It’s a TERRIBLE THING

To say a problem

Is problematic.




 

ESPECIALLY IF -

 

                                    Its grey and dark turquoise.

 

A dark and slanted story

I wrote about her –

Two jobs AND waiting on the kid -

 

She was ALL he had

But he didn’t write that part – 

 

Didn’t/couldn’t get that far. 

 

He was – after all,

Just – another - man

The man

That man

 

A sadly marooned man.

 

-   An Open eNDed

-  Freeway        cars slinking by as he pretended not to see her.

 

Just a second!

Where’re you’re headed?

DON’T TOUCH ME

It’s of paramount advantage

bÕn fídé  bonā fidē  breach

music was cast

edited 

like only production designers can.


 

We ALL contributed to the cover up

Down spiral story line

 

Mona Lisa got in

But millions died.

 

What are the chances

someone unpublished 

became 

the art of legacy?

(Just BECAUSE I’m reading it????)

 

(Just making the words live again).

 

Go on

Keep telling yourself – 

Tell yourself THIS

Is the best part – 

 

You can’t kill someone with 

Words –

Can you?

You can set the world 

aLiGhT,

Or start a war – 

 

But there you go –

playing  O and X’s  

And your win?

It was always too late.



 

It’s too late to have the blues,

 

plus I’ve figured:

                  That’s why he always writes in pencil – 

            That 

         Way

                  It’s easier to erase people

                  He doesn’t like.

 

                  Do you mean CHARACTERS?

 

                  NO, I mean people.

 

….

 

If our luminous present is based on now

it’s my personal property

Diving

Into fractious phrases

 

            They’re making a movie of 

My life

(behind the wall)

 

 

But…

 

Take it outside Eric - 

While others

(With noses in books

And sipping

Coffee)

Drink from the cup of unpleasant surprises - 



GYRATING ON NIGHT-LIGHTS

(A COSMIC DISAPPOINTMENT).

 

THE violin was so soft,

But dark

 

We wept together

In cardboard boxes 

I think.

 

                  I’m not sure

                  But again,

                  They were words

(Just words)

                  Without homes.



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