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.
2 comments:
Francis, Your use of language in this piece keeps drawing me back to it. The images are both bizarre and familiar. Mostly, I'm loving the alliteration and assonance that dances through the words.
~Brenda
Thanks Brenda. I've been feeling a bit blocked lately, so I'm trying to work my way through it.
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