Whoosh (air) Something came in, something left
beats rhyme, cymbals moan, pipes groan, vocals rest
their hands on your shoulders and take you for a dance.
Casino sounds merge with memory to leave you skint with feeling
Did you ever get carried away with thrash guitar and drums?
In that state of suggestion, anything comes to mind
you are a beaker and your cerebra-spinal fluid thrums
With knowledge of what got left behind
At least until now desiccated cow, dried sirloin, ash-ed rump
And now finally you’re getting ________
And bed wetting scenes
And lurid dreams
lucidly the demon with smiling jaws leads you by the hand
and into the paper sky where biro arguments leave your mouth dry.
And scud sand dunes.
Petty lions and drawn out silences are all that remain.
©2017 Andrew Watkins
Material things get the better of us 