poetry cafe number 2

And I'm here

among the wood grained dark stained

flat tables of cubed sweetness

ailing books with cracked spines

practised cryogenics and god

if I could spell it with seas

if I could fly over low oceans

dipping beneath the harsh waves of

crumpled reality and

forced memory

meaning from bed to heart to head and

plastered from bed to heart to head and

mixed flavours of forced spelling

and I'm here

among wood grained light stained

curved chairs with scuffed post-punk

ailing souls with the need for a fluke

a fleeting flute shrill

twittering through electronic windows

if I could spell it with care

seeping through wide cracks of

garish bravery

gaunt aches of the head and heart and

I'm here

thinking of what I could do about

think of what I should do about

thinking all the time

I'm here amongst the white brick readings

growing up in Reading, city of every state

springing through fields of repeated sentiment

finding new townes and boss weights

shivering with the anticipation of the next word

and I'm here

and I never quite finish

and I'm

I'm just