With no animal outlets,
essence grows essential in my
reclusive reptilian brain.
Jesus,
here we go again.
Right!
Deep breaths,
control the contractions,
suction cup the simile
and breathe in the irony
while you relax
and
pushhhhhhh.

Oh, god!
Look at him.
He’s hung like a writer.

Tears of reward roll down
a fissured glimpse
of an idea suckling on
the thin air of freedom.

But why won’t they bring him to me?
I don’t like the look in their eyes.
I see arbiters of the wholesome
mouthing – “incomplete.”

Finally, they turn my way
with comfort faces on.
“Bad news,” they’re afraid.
Apparently my feeling was reactionary,
not visionary.
Visionary was born of other labours,
beyond the barricade,
in the alleyways behind thick skin & vain.
A two-way street with a dead-end heart.

And yet,
I feel it still.
It’s pulse beckons with rhythmic reason.
My inert ear spellbound by possibility
pounding in the echoes of ‘could be’s’.

~ EB