Syndrome

Derail

Cut loose
the ties that
bound one juxtaposition
to the next
cool, crazy
an intuition remarks
with it's distinct
grasp on what
belongs otherwise
than realism.

It's time to
call whats
sublime in a
sense we can't
trust anyone
anymore.

Cut off you
toes and
balance.

Simple structure
to define a
day spent
refining what
you meant by
the crosses laid on
the banks of
the sand.

Is it both?
Do we share?
Anything but
ambiguity.

No toes left
on a sea wall
I can't sit
still until the
tides lull and
my toes are
returned.

I am cast
in the realm of
needing somewhere
to belong
someplace preceding
exactly what
I'm afraid of.

Track my progress
and you will find
that the jungle
is thicker
than any mind
or sea
combined.

Johnny

Direction

Is the issue a problem,
or is the problem an issue?
I asked myself
covered in dirt
blistered toes
cracked heels
and coming back to life.

Displacement

The horizon is painted
with wind-up
wind farms in
the port-side point-of-view
a sky striped
with two timed
liquorice lines.

The wheel barrows
on the straight
and narrow
do their job
late, (and pissed)
because the road is kind
to those
who are kind
to it.

When trains are
cancelled it rains
all kinds of
glances and all
beliefs become
refrained

Sad flags sit
on type cast
ship's masts
waiting for the day
that the cask wine works
its job
and the last
tomorrow comes
today.