His damp hands claw-clamped
for an explanation.
Some curled up fingers in
the nervous patch of his stomach
i want to get to know him…
His unsprung mind threw up
connected halves of another
It Works, in a whisper of
more force then shout
The calm mind slumped into
the caring kind of
throwing a shout,
like a paper bag.
He wins with a glassed up jar,
a soiled cigarette imprinting
his finger, breaking
i like the way the thread follows…
A flick of the face, buries
His hand into something, pumping,
something, choking, faking it too
late, he thinks and yawns jaws
The stage is cramped, his narrator
is folding the words back into paper.
The Crowds Loud Shout is whispering
too little. The spaces are built up with
an air of emotion, holding the room.
The chairs circled,
The pen penciled
next to its pad.
The room is the crutch, floating
i think he carries the voice almost…
Stories he watched retract, snap,
tape-measure in the cleared up room.
the Silence he holds chisels out bits of
They fall out the flat hand, into