Muddy Thoughts On a Rainy Sunday
The day is industrial olive oil.
Mudfish thrash on the shores of thought.
I grin a lot with my eyes,
grinners return my eyes to me -
no one wants them.
The morning's dull certainty
haunts me like a lugubrious condor,
wet ropes of laden gravity
drag me around.
Nothing irritates me
more than nothingness.
Ghost-talk filters through
a sluggish ennui
even the ghosts are boring.
The mudfish have had enough,
they are heading back to the ocean.
They know it’s a rainy Sunday.
My sludgy shores are full of killer shrimp
waiting for the squelch
of something fresh to arrive.
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