Uncertain

That she should respond
like a misplaced phone call
of a corpulent pavement hag,
waiting to breathe
a winded sideways
elaboration hex
with serrated whispers
into your brain
on a whim

To this grotesque
malformation of man
Her uncertainty
Is definite acknowledgement
that she has accepted
his invitation
to acquire
the seat next to her

More or less
he smells of
rancid thyme

He mumbles, shifting
in many layers
of crumpled fabric
And begins to mumble
to her mostly captive soul
about how they don't make
alarm clocks like they
used to
doze off to the ramble

He halts, halfway through
leaning closer to say:

Doesn't it just
your ire invoke
to see continual patterns
of repeated words?

For instance
common tandem identities
"dark night," "black heart,"
again again again
til'
their use is just the same
Ringing pain at it
once again

What?
Did they take
a clam knife
to a lexicon
of clichés
and hash them
 paste them
down on paper
with playdoh?

repetitively, shamefully
inserting idiocy
into their
windbag tone
Arrogant sounding bells
of Glory
Behold my work,
The English Language
...made gory?

mutilating pale symbols
their artists
spittle
shall
Dribble down
their imitation cheeks
as they please
But
if one more
perchance to speak again
I swear, I'll break
and set to free
the whole fragile
symbology.



which is why
she is standing there
with a baseball bat
in a room of wicker cages
wherein the tortured soulless
are Asleep

One by one
she shatters
the slender cages
freeing
lonely parables
timid motifs
misplaced characters
and a broken
epitome

she gathers them up
holding tight
they trail behind her
like darkly coloured ghost balloons
along a beach
that is completely devoid
of the normal living strife

stopping
at the very edge
she releases her hands
ribbons evaporating into ash





          as they fly away
                   in a dark congress
                                      of winged shades
                                                it occurs to her
                    that she hasn't quite freed all of them


looking for a suitable rounded rock
she finds one, raises it
and dashes out her skull








her last thought
as a shadow takes flight
from the hollow fragments of her wicker head
is that
She really needs call display

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