A Simple Disc of a 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