Swing

 

Spilt and splashed down

here in the low life,

wild electric blue

blanketed eyes,

ham cameo role on

the gallows pole,

wrapped up whole

in the scarf of the sky,

open closet of bones

sounds a wind chime,

while a barbed wire

snare smokes a lung,

watch me dance on

hair trigger corrections,

plunge from life’s

unsolicited tongue.

 

 

PLATEAU

 

Given the high percentage

of supernatural compression

during the inception of a

catalytic chemical relationship,

why do we act so surprised when

the alcohol makes us hungover,

the cigarettes make us wheeze

and the chocolate makes us fat?

 

Why do we act so surprised when

the froth and fizz subsides and

reality staggers through the door

out of breath, plonks on the bed

kicks off its smelly old work

boots and gasps, ‘Christ, this

fucking Honeymoon is killing me!’

 

Lindsay McLeod

Lindsay McLeod trips over the horizon every morning. He has won several prizes and awards and stuff for poetry and short fiction and published his first co-authored poetry collection, My Almost Heart, in 2015. He currently writes on the sandy Southern edge of the world, where he watches the sea and the sky wrestle for supremacy at his letterbox. He prefers to support the underdog. It is presently an each way bet.

 

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