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Poem

A Simple Disc Of A Poem

Not yet another stream of consciousness
from disc to brisk journey path behind no
emigration refugees bombs shrapnel hunger
There is gratitude though among the pain

No music on the vinyl player with cracks
and crackle’s dust fore-playing Cohen from
‘Chelsea Hotel’ to ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’
We do love blues though like Klimt’s lovers

No endless loop of thoughts emotions gusts
and gushes scribed in gloomy neural paths on
the ‘thank you for flying with Prozac Airways’
But my head is on the pillows nevertheless

Only that little cushion where Chakra’s spirits
supposedly align energies together from red
waves to indigo in seven easy steps to health
a brittle disc squeezed like toothpaste beyond

A few tiny scraps of distorted flesh only when
screams of agony abuse the meaning the word
like Heavy Metal like Munch in disguise when
my poetry is caught in referred pain in the ‘leg’

In German they call sciatica shot from the witch
which I think unfair why must it be a woman to
elicit my back and do they not cast their spells
in magic wonder and miracles in any some case

Klimt’s lovers are no distant memories and your
famous blue dress still enchants when you hand
me the ‘Deep Heat’ to rub on my skin and my pain
And there is a stream of conscious consciousness 

From my prolapsed disc and what feels like
agony however the clever word books disagree
to the bombs shrapnel hunger and madness I am
safely tucked away from with my pillow and duvet

29th July 2016

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