CRINGE
shutting his eyes he sees
sparks and doubts
mashed down
secreted away
crippled yearnings
hover and bite
listless mouthless curses
spite the bided time
whilst murmuring sleepwalkers
blindfolded at birth
barefoot upon marble
behind mirrored glass
wedged in the windowed place
stock-still
all agape
his gob eats the phrase
show me the map
point the way home
he foresees
every chipped-off day
tensions drained away
the pork-grease hours plot and tell
snigger and tell
casual friendships wax and whine
backflip and whine
he thinks
before the fungus grows
lean upon this elbow till it breaks
before the skin droops
sit upon this bottom till it cramps
sleep flooded sleep
dream finished dreams
rub away the soot and start again
scratch away the scab and start again
he listens
a foreigner sat in the class of illiterates
tells adult-children's jokes
coddled by the females
admired by the boys
despised by some fellow at the back
a new girl
also foreign
sat in the class of illiterates
speaks of a husband
unusual work
the baby-to-be
compensation for mums
studies abroad
admitted to playing some kind of flute
till some fellow at the back
slipped ever so quick
through enormous enameled doors
blurred was the aquarium this time 'round
curled were the drawings of plants and mice
missed was the train
smoldered did he
bit down his lip
and smoldered did he
all in a fume
in a rush to his temple
rode the tram home
threw down a glove
he breathes
sat in the windowed place
rocks just a little
fro and to
fro and to
traces a word in the glassy wet
with a forefinger's edge
beat the cold day
just beat the cold day
I beat the cold day
so there
