I scribble through my contacts
And dribble for a call
As hours and minutes keep oozing along walls
With trails that are as straight as tracks.
Chugging with fumes as in outmoded cars
I rattle and scuttle
With cough, phlegm and spittle
And drown in the puddles
Of plasticised prattle
Where bathe our voracious
With briefcase and bags great or little.
Here among droning of newsreading bees
I turn to my headphones and quietly now block
Their humming with stereophonic locks.
Battered with cycles of clocks without chimes
I pay my bills late and muddle through my mimes.
[This one's dedicated to Jack...read his poems and you'll see to what extent the poem draws formal inspiration from his practice]