Slashed with colour,
the flag, it flies
stashed with a flair
it groans on its rise
and it makes a sound
of cold, hard thunder
with every
stunted breaststroke;
shadows a-dancing
wrapped cord all a-choke.
Lined gold and
bombastic
a chain reaction
of fate,
causation
rotates it:
in this frivolous state.
Crowds line,
gawp up unblinking;
the wise, the enamoured,
the gormless, the thinking.
Half dreaming and breathing full
and true, the dark dances to a place
of blood moons and 10-foot rodents.
I stutter and kick in the present and now
I’m gone to the wind as my breath hits the
fan. Paradigms lurk above; a Tetris shuffle
of nonsense I can barely decode, though I
thirst for every inch of it. Warm air hangs
like a rug from the ceiling and the sheets
cling, rough and terse to each suggested
movement. There’s a safety net I can trample
upon, as though it were more than simply
nuance. Here and now tumbles into my
rough sense of being as I open my eyes.
