There are not many things

There are not many things

I am happy about,

If anything at all.

It’s a tall order,

For the world is less

Than it was

Complexity is not art

Red roses spit blood

Coughing and spluttering

With the senselessness of it

All the short-arsed men

With flabby bellies

Over their trousers

Beer stains on their vests

Grey hair on their chests

Beating themselves up

Over nothing

And all the while

The nightingale sings

In the corner

Lost in a daydream

Of wonder

As the sparrow

Tries out for the choir.

What a voice she has

So much from so little

And the beat goes on

Tearing at the edges

Of the page.

A loose leaf of sanity

Flapping in the breeze

Barely holding on

It is a white knuckle

Kind of day

Enjoy the ride

The flight is alright

It is the landing we fear.

As much as I would like

It is hard to sit with a straight face

As the beat goes on

All I can see is

The tail end of a story

With little context

And no punchline.

It is no joke

Just for a change

It is not even a poem

Worthy of the name

Strike out your damn spot

Dear Shaky

Strike it out. Strike it out.