Stale crusts, broken from edges of time:
Dry ripped and bitten.
Sitting in windows bleating
Whistling tunes to bar telling salesmen
Selling chisels for cleverly accounting wizards.
Scraping juice frozen on glass topped mountains.
Surfaces shadowed in unison
Grown in purple showrooms
Assuming a different identity
A pity they didn’t strum in party clothes
A nose for a different reality
To summon up jewels sharp and shining
Sent to the glazed eye, of a moment passing.
Swinging in time with saliva flavoured gestures
Cordon of the area for the bull in charge is prancing
Lancing boiling water with whisky crisps
Grabbing bleeding tendons in stained tissues
A misuse of borrowed sessions
Chuckle at the silver buckled boots
Made with the skin of a plastic donkey
Free of natural colours
Delivery of new notions and reasons
Seasons changing in the moment
Stories made up in the meantime
Still in the middle of believing
Conceiving forgotten dreams to remember
Climb through the tunnel
To breath the air
To rest in charmed endeavours
May 21st 2017
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright