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


Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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