Paper water pistol

A poem

Mundane Monday morning
crack of dawn
behind the yawning
and the night
dreams are laid stillborn
in the artificial light
from a broken sleep
to an effervescently frothy
top adorning the bitter coffee
the spoon in the cafetière
like a waking kitten

he fills his mug half full
“…another mundane Monday morning”
thinks the fool
who feels his mugs half empty

to percolate the silk
thread he wishes to weave
he adds a dash of milk
and let’s it leave
his lips, gratified
he sips it slowly
to taste the flavour of the day
a spoonful away
from ever truly being satisfied
not on porridge and poetry, alone
alas, it will have to suffice
to sustain his flesh and bone
and stand in as his vice

staggering through the week
to the promised land
staggering on weak will
willed on his own command
staggering on willing legs
or, dragged by hand
to drunken releases





the cycle ceases
in amusing
only increasing his self abusing tendencies
getting lost among familiar brick
in the loneliness of a crowded room
just cold, steel-thoughts
to cut the thick
jungle of voices

he stares into their echo
dancing on the inside of the amber bubbles
he drains the vocals with a greedy gulp
to calm his nerves and drown his troubles

steadfast at the bar
he knows what he wants
- another beer
but, has never really known what he needs
to be content
whether sodden beneath the wetted whistle
dampening the fires of desire
first, to flatten the thirst of wanting
some sort of “something, something”
whether a purpose
or, a punch up
to make him feel alive
in the here and now
that’s the sort of sorts he’s sought
in the rights, and lefts he’s caught
just to feel
something else
something other

broken bottles
reflecting shards of courage
or, principle
to stand his ground
… stupidity
some testosterone scented candle
to illuminate the foregone vigil
hormones of self destruction
from which he used to function
“drink up!” he presses on
hoping to pass that point
so he can disjunction

dowse that burning seduction
to reckless and impulsive pursuits
one can dive deeper into the intoxicating abyss
the grassroots
of this organised chaos;
those flying fists
fleeting fits
of self-sabotage
- they stem the barrage
of normality

it’ll be a lie to say he didn’t miss it - enjoy it - the fighting
maybe… maybe, that’s just his nature
to find conflict, exciting

when he was born to feel
life; with a frightening sobriety
unfazed by the taser of authority
yet, thrown off by the phases of the moon
a swooping anxiety
mourns the death of ignorance
the misanthropic magpie to the amygdala
a odd bedfellow
who, pissing on all reason
will let it mellow
where he lays, restless

sights and sounds shiver
through the veins of reality
more real
since the birth
of his precept to percept
its afterpains
lingering, still

a wound which will never heal

why does he feel
- so deeply?

is it imprinted in his genes
or, a blueprint administrated by
algorithmic machines

rolled on gears
out the womb
built to hold these feelings
pressed in the mould
all parts, factory fitted
packaged in pretty pink skin
and shipped out

sold to the world

a paper water pistol
filled with emotion.

© Darius the Mate

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