Meprobamate

Let him squawk, let him squeal again
hear him whine and snivel, mutter grief, mumble woe
bellyache regret and drivel
over nothings that mean nothing at all
complain.

It doesn’t hurt, because he can’t feel
he doesn’t want it, but wants to steal
trapped behind glass, unable to reach whatever’s on the outside
it’s inside, the humming metal - the sparkling rust.

He plants his feet, he claims his space,
but gets pushed out, pushed back in
push each other the other way
don’t touch me, DON’T TOUCH ME!
get OFF! PISS OFF! get AWAY!

It’s the jigsaw shove, and we all squirm
fight to fit, strive to stick
but have to quit
we retreat instead.

Escape.

Into ourselves.

But who is who?

No one can tell
sell our souls to mobile heaven
rejecting proof
who gives a hell
I won’t tell.

All gravel in the metal worm
our mannequin queue
a traffic of shadows refusing to move
into the tunnel, the light at the end
signal’s changing
but nothing else
unable to reach the just outside
the light at the end
my other self.

Posted by TchikaDe in: St. Inkwell   3 September, 2008  

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