subliminal messages that come through the radiators,
radio signals from space,
and yet I can’t place that feeling I’m feeling and it feels like it’s all slipping away.
old at twenty four and
every door shut in your face.
Too many beggars and not enough time
too many bodies stretched out on the line
and not enough time to give them a hand up,
hand out, hand of friendship, is this what living’s
one cannot help being drunken and stupefied
when once it was normal but now it’s being
and they call me a halfwit,
but Christ on a broomstick
look at the lunatic fringe.
on a lighter note,
you can all come to my funeral,
but I won’t attend
I’ll be reading the subtext in the
messages they send and that’s a
full time job.
© 2018, John Smallshaw.