Marginalia

 

Wilful disobedience has not

Paid off well

And yet this uncontrollable urge

To grab the wheel and

Peel off of the smooth tarmac

Across and down into the margins

Endures

Dress it up as you like

Recalcitrance

The maniacal nature

Of the principled man

But the truth comes up

You gag on it

And they see it

Clear as spit on your chin

But now

Still

I grind away at it

As it in turn grinds me down

The uphill walk to normality

To concession and compromise

Every day

Tomorrow

Yesterday

Today

Is a string of pearls

Waiting to be snapped.

Gone

Ideas for poems come 

At the most inopportune times

Often while lying flat in bed

That one

Second

After you have stared at the

White paint

Ceiling for an hour

And just

Before your eyes close

This always happens

Not formed prose

But rather seeds

A title

A block of marble awaiting

The chisel

But then like the rain

The words slow and are in an instant

Gone

And darkest night falls

Like a weight as your forehead

Once full of promise

Is filled instead with useless dreams

Of joy and superpowers and

Gardens in the

Sun.

Unfinished business

A small cat jumping across my skull

Inside and around it

A Catherine wheel on the brink of

Petering

Out

Filter malfunctioning

The tap fully open

Ideas cascading out into

The dead night

Air

I do not try to stop them

Get them out, I say

I am unburdened now

And ignorant and playful

Only the kitten remains

Pawing at its ball of string.