Tendered nail tips smoothed.
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Through sand and sea, ivy canyons
Wrapped around loosely fitting dresses,
Cut from cloths, rippled old and golden
Torn from bandages, sliced with agony’s knife.
Doesn’t everyone smell the same rose, and eat
The same poisoned daffodil?
Walking, every tip toe tenderly displacing the worms,
Slugs, lady bugs and ants.
Noah’s tunes whistling enchanting sonic waves.
Consciences of there’s and trees,
Always the same tasting spiteful delusions.
Always the same tasting blighted bitter angst,
That oozes into the ulcer hidden in my gum,
Stinging in realms of Alcatraz and Crumlin.
After this, salt washing drains the colour, and soaks
The blood with sodium for the week ahead,
Lip licking to remember the day left lingering.
Eye lid flicking leading to hours of star gazing of
Oil painting on Van Gogh’s back door step, throwing
Star dust past the moon, willing it to land upon
Shadows inside, beyond the whale and the sunflowers
That bring smiles to their faces - creases to your cheeks.
What should he forgive in his day, slashing your back?
To simply play.
Flicking the pain like turning that page.
Or closing this book.
Sprinkling perfume to dull the stench and antidote the
Relentless banging of the head.
Which bend and bend through your wilful might.
Past the doldrums and vanities of yesteryear,
When always nothingness appeared,
Scribbled with diamonds etched onto
The mirror in the hall.
How does difference ever forge it’s gap
When no-ones even trying?
After all, like spaces on a bus, no-one could guess the empty
Seat explains this tear… her scream.
Talking into someone remembering the story that should not pass,
For they are secrets to him, to her, to me and you,
Hidden caves in the hills behind.
N.B. Crumlin is a jail in N.Ireland.