In My Fist

Friday, August 20, 2010

I can see it but
my fingers keep
telling me
forty-six and a quarter
flamingly mindbending
lies and blurtruths
which are one and the same
Of course
What's wrong with me
Stretched my legs
on the responsive bed
And let
my big fat head
Fall back en route
to the welcoming pillow
But why is it taking
a thousand phone calls
to a capsicum-eating toad?
When will my sodding head
get to the crashing pillow?
Where am I at?
Are we there yet?
Oh, come on, come on