The Closed Shop of Life

November 25, 2020

Things hung, hang left undone

The hair wraps, dietitian's fat-bum checks

No pit-stop weight patrols, your eating gallop’s uncontrolled

The milliner’s; the occasional short snack

At Morrison’s a tea and a cream bun

In shock; all’s gone

And all the world’s temptations

Day-Glo, fly at you, suck you down into a lower hell

The paper-clips of life have lost their calmer uses

Deadair-pump generators sit, beating no juices

Hung like a turkey on a rail and waiting on the buy

Or as a long slow video show; your Internet’s away

There was your life, no spare; that simple round of things

Here has become a purgatory of waiting times

A mausoleum of just-might-haves, the summer’srinds

And what, put on the spot, is there, declare, but hair to do?

Looming room opens, comes unspoken subtle space

See, see it grinning, the mad reflection of your face

Sat in a gondola passing over a crystal crossing place

Words seeming unavailable, and explanation faint

Here are you seeing yourselves, each other in half-light

Of reasonings unfathomed, in speculation’s wraiths

You call out; to one another; but you’re out of range

And swells the jellied waters bearing clear away

Into a focal distance at a point infinity

That one glance through this doorway into wildperhaps

This self, its ghostly portent, with it goes what it meant

Left only leavings; bereaving thought’s accompaniments

As if, holding your hand, had ferried on its way,

To you, only masked avenues, heart-heard, leftas a dower

Thoroughfares, almost freakawares, but unconsidered, lost

Despair’s insignia “Here be dragons” mounted so it seemed

Such invitations to pursue?- enough to have had bad dreams

Colourists at the hair salon grow pale in one’s long thinking

Little trysts at the teashop; cups go crack, stop clinking

All the affairs of Tupperwares and Avon Calling

Your kapok cushioned life passed on, and turned rice pudding

Here rare there rears pariah compères of spectre game shows

The last placed domino of six by six stacked up has fallen

A terror-cell of insects scattersunder a wet tarpaulin

What are these?... La nausea pensee, so much appalling.

Walking the regular route a vast sink-hole rims, opens up

A delivery van withhand-picked fruit slips lost into it

This version of life's short-handed, can no longer turn your wheel

That way you used to burn up

Fired octanes on the surface

Slide through all the ides and nones obstreperously

No quarter: underwater, there you never sauntered

Nor reconnoitred in your mind

So how since sails lie limp and gales sing lullabies

And your boat engine power emits just six slapped haddock

How might your thoughts recursive, curséd, had come to stop

When stop became the a la mode convention?

And hereon down the road come forms too maladroit to mention

Askings of things mistold, come shuffling, scrolled fast-forwards

Long throws into furrowed futures; calling tongue-compactedfreights

Indelicate entrails talk, foresee-through what is certain,

That would be hid; rose curtained queues behind cued curtains

An ending to kids’ pass-the-popcorn; thebacon’s credit gone

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