justwrite 26 march

tired of the right-hand scene the scheme of the left is all we’ve got I’m not likely to reshuffle into matter there’s no way to scatter the country or the map and the collapse of all those digits and you in it between the bookpages raging against tears for the machine for fears we are steering forward into the forewarned darkness there is a fire in the courtyard and there are hard rows to hoe we know our own answers but we are tired of the questions we keep asking our tasks to get done and no one wants to listen our glistening pages the stages we thought we’d overcome sometimes I’m numb and smiling blandly into the sun with me eyes slit in surprise and sometimes I feel too much to touch any sort of wondering with a lonely tinge the motivation binges its own urges purges repeatedly in the heat of varied moments the phone calls itself home and there are no numbers to call there are no hands to hold I told you once before and I’m sure it’ll be repeated every Friday night every twenty percent of the deal or so and we’re more than there we fare well unfairly or otherwise disrespected or self-congratulated where is the conversation where is the fascination where is the planning I can handle where is a schedule that can’t be meddled with and who will buy the broccoli who will talk a mean streak out of hair the blonder side of whitewashing all those trees up to their knees in white skirts glaring with bright at the insects and the easter preparations we are nations united in dividing time zones waiting to leap forward and to call all those kettles back in black tracking the highwaymen into texts the novel ideas I have wrapped myself in instead of reality I am the giant of my own imaginings now I am become undone