another Sunday morning

Why do I write? Nothing will change. I’m still sitting here re-arranging deranged sayings, displaying inner sanctuaries within an invisible centre stage. Indivisible rage. My political stance versus their invidious slants. Insidious chance for me to vent and rant. A window for you to see with whom I’m accustomed to bant, er. It’s just a game. Laze. Crazy stardom fetish plays. Shakespeare mocked governments and crowns back in the day. So many years on, parties are the same. In it for personal benefit and capital gains. Judge, jury, execution: just because death isn’t punishment doesn’t mean we as a people are more humane. In fact. It points to statute and law: our situation is more insane than it was ever before. Beating at my door step, collecting debt is the subject they’d prefer we were dying for: building us up as habitual sitcoms and dotcom minotaurs.

…inspiration used to be mystical musical scores, taking us to heaven rattling off worries on the ocean’s shores…

This era propagates fame as the aimed-for cure. Battling drones in airspace, abuse in cyberspace, remnant rockets roaming across superspace, for Godsake, all I want is a little bit of space. My space. Even that’s branded now by just in time flooding timbered lakes deliberate decisions passed off as mistakes. I ache to achieve a thread that any visionary repeats with ease. It’s a reprieve. History cannot be retrieved, the future is bleak. Oblique frames in times to come, splinters for which I weep outquest the truth for where I am from: if only tears could turn these deserts sweet. Raw meat, flesh and skin us under these plains…

…never the twain shall meet; though we art pilgrims we plunder our weighty faith arguing against man’s depraved craves selling lives in exchange…

Slaves to old gold and superiorly complex ways we should wait, create unity instead they pulverise states concentrating on discontinuity traits: setting pathways for clay cast mould set in stone conforming to every witch way instead of wizarding rites of one’s own, stalemate damp has me cold eating my bones. Disassembling trend getting, jet setting, military crones, flying flags for worship to mad man made segregating cement killing zones.

…I wear a heart of glass around my neck you breathe through one of stone…

I beseech thee and less is more than you bestow, slow growth and economics fails us all. They stand tall, we fall short on the brink of lording noughts, loading thoughts…loading…loading…

…brazen bullets goading ghosts hosting mostly bought freedoms paid with blood…

Deaf, blind, paralysed, dumb. Numb to our ores, embryos restored to life with fully rotten cores, heedless seed sowed and sprinkled to weed sparking nervous special needs scarcing sources, pretending it’s semantic magic damaged senseless it’s all courses for horses, hoarse divorces…every inch clinched into a cliche of clicks, gravity grabbing hands depravity pulverising shock awe tactics.

You’re selling fishes to the selfless having us believe silly monsters lurk underneath, sinister ministers meddle niches with sneaky sheens, polish off the glass wiping the slate clean; each perpetuating sequel seems an equal genius holds only themselves esteemed.

5 thoughts on “another Sunday morning

  1. Ah yes, I confess, what a mess, register to vote, bring your goat, on your way get run over by the mayor’s float… Then on election day, what the hay, wear a hat ten-stories tall although your heels are small and you’re not patriotic after all… But we all know tha nation will die with out your wild goose call! I love SQ cuz she’s so SQ!!!

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  2. Brown Sauce!

    I once read the message on the back of a bottle. Contemplated it a while and it meant rather little. With further words and time, I saw a rhythm and one rhyme, transcending all their meanings, then, by ever-such-a-lottle!

    It was then that it revealed to me a rhythm of the words, even in your prose – he puts a finger on his nose, confides the secret knowledge that every poet knows – no matter their arrangement, nor really how absurd, the secret’s in the metre, and this art will let you teeter on the brink of something great, but if you wait for it to happen, then it might be just too late; your prosody will faultier, poetic river out of spate; no need for any stanzas, logophilic extravaganzas…

    but the sauce is in the bottle still, and will be on the plate.

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    1. Wowsers, Thank you, I didn’t think of it that way but now that you’ve said it I can see it being spoken worded that way…need to find someone to perform it…! : )

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