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Dividing the corners (a prose poem - stream of consciousness type of thing) 97'



Five to nine and a horrible reality. Even the carpet thinks so (after yet another coffee mug spills with the ashtray), and probably the band that's jamming away in stereo, thinking smugly, that they're tomorrow's Beatles, selling out arenas to tomorrow's people.

Still it all seems quite reputable compared to the silver cutlery in the drawer next to the microwave, unpolished yet glistening with rust. That's a fine example of time ....

Funny thing time, always biting your ass, and not without it's own obstacles like love, ambition, finance and class. You can see it like the lay-bys on busy hustling A-roads, where you wait killing with boredom on an empty tank or disabled waiting for a psychiatrist from the RAC. Was it because of your wife, your husband boring you sexually, the kids and their problems, or was it just life? Maybe it was none at all, and just the fear of growing old without any of the above. Not really knowing how well it might feel, if you only tried. Maybe it was just that you lost control lost your mind, temporarily.

To get things done is to achieve an absolution, against any forces deriving you and depriving you with their lines of attack. They will always try to turn your direction - Your move now but WAIT! You're losing aim if you continue with that shadowy glance. It's times like these when you're left wondering, trying to consider your ultimate goal; which angle is required for the shot? How many straight lines must a person have to follow?

WAIT for it (whistle) OFFSIDE. Thrown in like a ball but never stop from bouncing with thought and other suggestions. Don't go falling or bending into the curve of the racetrack, that only boils down to a lack of insight, a misguidance of your penetrating perimeters and leagues that suddenly go crashing. You'll lose your place and face round the tables. Are we placed in order of sense, being and construction of age? But wait! That's being psychological. All the while you'd better get moving, slamming back after the three yard scrum, before the Sphinx turns cold in the half light of shadow and the sun sinks - fading into the West.

Some of us may age like wine, others turn bitter like the maltest of vinegar. There's some of that in most of us, it has to be said. But nonetheless pickles preserve long ago tastes. QUICK your captain is shouting you - make haste.

Possessions gather dust. Just everyday objects caught in the fallout of time, skin, microbes and all the other general wear and tear of our environmental air. They're waiting for something like me. Another poem? Idea? Expression? Or maybe another impression? Still they're considered like my thoughts pulled from the dark of being a fossil in my own home. Fingers now flicker through this week’s TV guide: the optical bible of soap, debate and misery. Tired and resting forever. Bitching and besting with who's failed to score this week.

Got to get up. Divide my corners into equal opportunities. Waiting. Conjuring. Staring through my windows and the tattering blinds. Visualising the changes in my mind, running on a fuel of bubbles of a kind. Aligning my geometry of thought, from what I have known and all that I was taught. Desperately trying to repair my hourglass and set my imaginist barometer towards the warm. It's time we had a change of pressure and not the cold atmospheric come down of this bellowing and violent weather, raging war on my house exterior.

Summer is soon - will come. Then even out of the deepest waters, from the silty bottomed depths that have been collected and sieved by circumstances through the hands of the seasons, the life hatches from fertilised conceptions, nymph like and rises to the liquid surface, avoiding their damnation from predatory trout, them being on the scales of who survives. This reminds me of life, its creativity striving, soon to flood the air with colourful splendour. I'm waiting while nature's dating, I seep through the pane, waiting for the return of my native, just like the swallows and their shrieking cries, as they bullet and ricochet through the sunkissed, benevolent and immigrant sky.

prose poetrystream of consciousnesssurrealism

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