Floods of words swill around our ears,
not making any sense.
‘Don’t worry,’ says the palm tree,
‘We’ve got some English folks to explain it for you,’
as if it’s the back of a pill bottle label.
Children are children except when they are not.
Thus spake the child,
given proverb homework
that altogether confuses the bonding experience.
Christmas is christmas can be shit,
even when filmed realistically
lensed on a yawning video photography camera.
Best supporting ensemble
goes to the debris.
Let’s hear it for the debris
as it drowns us out and batters us into a drunken stupor
and we stumble across the big screen
wishing for a documentary
and thanking god(s) its not real
and never happened
and won’t happen again.
Hit In The Face With A Car.
My heart is out of tune.
Sometimes when you play it it falls
like a lead balloon down an endless well.
Not without potential;
Not being used in the proper way.
It plays like a sock and a leaf make an instrument
but sometimes when you play it
it sounds… nice.
The sock is wet and the leaves make a rustling sound
and I feel a small breeze
while they gust to the ground
and break down in tears on the phone,
desperate for return and reunion –
WHERE IS MY FAMILY TREE?
we all die.
Our lives will have been lacking a piano score.