The elephant-grey, cracked walkway clacks with alacrity:
as the tedious, stiff facades in a talentless circus of mediocrity
plod, and trek to their typical, mechanical homage – a life my
insurrection rejects! Instead, at a lowly, junk-ridden, rickety
desk – on sixteen-hour, voluntary shifts – I regurgitate injustice.
Will I ever switch my rabble-rousing, misanthropic existence
for a steady salary, car and otiose days off at Christmas?
Swivel chairs – in an unholy, goldfish bowl – with chains!
Pub jaunts, cream cakes with petty, civilian saints,
and dreary, clock-watching years, with lottery syndicates.
This rantipole poet re-mortgaged her lifeblood to repossess time:
decrypting the tangled-web of a tortured mind’s production lines.
My supernatural re-incarnation – as a poetic, psychic surgeon –
pledges petroglyphs of Donatistic lyrics, and complex lamentations.
I survive by devouring plentiful plenilunes in valiant dimensions.
Jekyll and Hyde’s allotment cultivates fine verbs and nouns.
Fifty years devout, sterling service awards and android-head,
with an ingot watch, a pension and an orthopaedic bed!
Yet, starving lyricists live eternally in folios: their cicatrices
flood like wordy blood, as knife-edged, quality-controlled rectos
cut into eternal ebbs and flows of etymological, mystagogic tides.
An android’s watch – rasped by retirement, coronary and death –
ticks on as a by-passed heart, gasping for breath:
under a charity shop counter, it flops; limp as an amaranth,
in a swiftly-decomposing, demoralised, pocket-sized wreath.
This wage-less wordsmith’s spine-chilling lines will outlive
the hands and face of mechanised life and time; by sculpting
denticulate epistles – with a scalpel – into epidermis then epitaph.
Copyright Cassandra Swan
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