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 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.
