Watching television
for 600 calories,
above the whir
of a climbing treadmill.
I can’t hear them —
the voices,
the actors miming;
the good guy in the white hat
always unequivocally
distant.
Off the tread now, into a different
stasis —
stretching the tendons,
unable to watch,
belly down, not lip reading,
the tinnitus, not helping
with the shaking, the verbal
memory,
the bruising past, nor
a past of bruises,
undiscerning.
Push up,
It’s time to push up.
Ghosts don't glide, they walk.
See, there's one next to you right now.
Tip to toe,
grounded and ungraved,
disinterested.
Pacing, in temporal remembrance.
Waiting, in the dead weather,
for their feet to leave
the ground,
steeped in forever,
not unlike you.
Blue skies and distemper,
a saturating storm
in the teacup
of God, or worse —
meaning Man,
always on the cusp
of a misnomer,
Sapiens, my arse,
knowing nothing
while breaking it all
the same,
Breaking it all;
all the same.
'Pissing Down'
Rock walls sway when watered,
cascade into a pleasantness, for
the rainbows, and
the tourists,
the homeless, in the car parks,
waiting for the loos
and a little providence,
par excellence,
something Godly for a prayer's due,
and perhaps a little less rain.
Tumble out of bed,
as from a drain,
unwholesomely,
an impulsive discharge —
a migration to the next ex-
it.
The heart strays,
restless with gravity,
oddly, a non-Newtonian
punching bag,
while the inviolable head
says don't touch me,
just don't.
No.
The grey skies always match
the threadbare curtains.
#poetry #TashPoetry #writing #TashInTheClouds
I disappear often, as dissociative people are wont to do.
My poetry, fortunately, is more enduring, and you can peruse them through my profile.
Comments and thoughtful critiques are always welcome.
Aroha nui,
Tash
TashPoetry