Tuesday, May 10, 2011

The dreamy promise of this vast wasteland

Half-asleep in a fog
of blanket and pyjama
I slip through flickering
channels of static-drenched drama
and the hiss made by bickering,
childhood-imprisoned ghosts.
A heavenly spokes-damsel
flirts me to my host
using a slink full of crackle
and the oddly addictive pop
of mis-stressed syllables.
The offer on the cluttered counter-top
is a bullet-point bible,
leather bound for an easy-income calm,
and thrown in with the assured salvation
of an outstretched palm
to slap me away from happy damnations
he’s conveniently catalogued.
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