These days are heavy, of rains and red skies I turn out boxes, trade on colours, take in bouts under lone footlights. There's so much to glean, the mess , the truth look yellow in the heart and dust red mute. Ain't you tired of camouflaging? Heard this so many times? In books and movies, stand ups or sit coms, must be sea sides? damn the cliches of thought, sprouts and fungus, it repeats what it hears sticks to the same, pukes the draught; there's molten skies now, the red wore off I tried talking to the bed, to the beat to languages I speak but would not know to ideas I learn, I smile, I care and will not sow. This dust is a terrible thing ,they are clean, they gel, they sleep. Live and dream. Yawn and fear. So on these nights before they crawl into spaces of fright. Things live at the moment of death and mornings never live so bright while rooms lock their forebodings against candles of silver. The blinds drawn over laugh and mirth, when one day, someday,
things fail out of flickering light.