Stuck in the Middle with You
When you are alone,
you look at the others
and think
that one had too much ...
time to think
and that one …
well, you surmise,
they are on the brink
of some precipitous ...
evaluation,
about to take a big tumble,
they parade monumentally,
then they fall like the risen
bright and shiny
drunk on words
a new wonderful
holy smoke rolling
addiction
the signs are in the strokes
of keys hit, but not placed,
into slots that fit, or do not,
you watch their thoughts
and listen
to yours, marked
in valuable time
drugged by words
beating the drum
like its dinner served,
in metronome
tick tock tick tock
they release the signs
big notes all
in black strokes
seconds before midnight
poets and their poetry
too much time to think
they evaluate the roads
watching the others, walking
straight lines,
some off the charts
like rogue bees
gone all curves
they do the two-step
like some ball room
polished Pride of Erin,
thinking simultaneously,
I'm caught up, dancing,
then, perplexed
brow wrinkling
questioning,
where's the limerick dance card...
to get off
then you swipe left
and realise, there's
no margin right?
beam me up Scotty
with the lost others,
speaking of love,
oozing over ripe scribbles
like honey dripping
off lips licked unseen
replacing misfortune
with sensual limericks
the romance tasted
for a small corner of heaven
the pearly gates
well and truly wide open
oh, sunny fortune
in fields of roses
they plough
their way through
the fragrant feels
scents of violets
and forget-me-nots
fecund little deaths unheard
yet somehow believed
poets and their poetry
ever thoughtful,
chirping incessantly,
kept like beautiful birds
swinging exotically
in their safe gilded cages
minds advertising
in unsolid sold unity
the need to be felt
for what it is worth,
yet true hearts
paraded unseen
in the last days
of their old worlds
they parlay
in a strange language
lost in the ordinary
they are haughty
owls parliamentary
gloved and ever ready
kings and queens
Candide Diderot. ‘24
stuck in the middle with you…
“clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right”
the word. beetles, black.
“...their thoughts
pirouetting words hung,
the black beetles
shine
like exotic
fresh water
pearls strung...”
Copyright ©
Candide Diderot
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