Give me a first-line

Give me a first-line

I know you want to

It is right there

Winnowed on a breeze

Whispered through a tangle

Of Willow trees

Conversing

Like old friends

Along the banks

Of an old Mill stream

Bubbling with curiosity.

Lock me unconscious

In a jumble of grapevine

I want to scream

And without ceremony

Or any chance

Of reaching safety

Throw up in a corner

Beneath a window sill.

Cruelly and senselessly

Spatter my spillage over

A tattered page

Filled with self-righteous rage

At the thought of it.

Nothing is easy

It beats me down

Heart racing in time

To the dishwasher

Clicking and whirring

Uncoiling as unevenly as a chronometer

Timed out of vanity

Drunk on its own mortality

Useless without a winder.

A sleeping dog

Without a reminder

To twitch uncontrollably

In a stand-off

With the cat from next door

Who is a mercenary

Lacking in morality.

The dog has no chance

But to beat a hasty retreat.

A twisted mister

Desecrating its own remains

For the price of an original thought

As rare as Hens teeth.

Poetry on a stick

Take a lick

Chicken feed

To the devil on the run

From complicity

In the ruination of an idyl,

A fine romance

Between the viewer and viewed.

Let he who throws the first line

Be without sin

Which leaves me sitting

On the sidelines

Drinking cheap red wine

From a jam jar

Wrapped in brown paper,

Minus the string

Just another lost soul

Who was a contender

Back in the day

When I could have

Put two and two together

And made hay

Instead of bad choices.