Tickle – Hurt

 

 

 

            It’s more than this,

More than deserts, rocks, swamps

     And oceans,

     It’s more than every wishful

Thought that bounds the minds

Of People’s,

     It’s more than meams,

     Or dreams.

 

 

 

            It’s more than breathless,

It’s more than wordless on the lips –

With everything to say,

     It’s transient like your spittle,

     Tangible but brittle –

Gives warmth to hearts

Taken on its sharpest days.

 

 

 

            It’s a teasing of a paradox,

It’s clocks stopped in certain quarters,

     It’s time yet to race again –

     Another age,

It’s the turning of a key

Inside the minds of Intellects,

 

 

 

            It’s blood and death and anger,

It’s inside – it’s outside it’s,

Lying in it’s truth, turning all who think they

Have it sussed, to take another view.

 

 

 

It’s not you,

It’s not they,

And it’s tearing down the tears,

It’s not I who thinks he knows the score

When all in all I know fuck all,

     And it’s nothing new on Earth.

 

 

 

Michael J Waite 11^th October 2009