The Biggest Jigsaw
Now is never and the future is now.
This umbilicus between contemplation and action
is so havocked by grey
that the stage we play on
should never torture boredom
But I find myself living mere moments
that, if all were jig-sawed together,
would equal one good day in a year of damp
I slither from non-care to care-most
and, somehow, consciously and unconsciously,
to my pretend surprise,
persuade friendships from this maze
that are more somnambulism
than the conquering of loneliness
and the fetid that accompanies
I give to them a part of me
that they like more than not
But it’s a part that’s a bit
that if used to recreate me
wouldn’t build more than a toe…
a representative for the stinkiness
between what burns behind and grows before
I throw a water of indifference over my shoulder
so that now is never and the future is now
and I’m fucking frightened
by the biggest dreams
that are raped of ambition,
inactivity, pointless activity,
and the possible love of a breast
(deserves special mention,
that timeous war for, and rejection of, love)
Now I face-long into the avoidance of desire
and that which I've witnessed,
wring my hands of impatience and expectation,
and slide my tongue against that which I’ve begotten.