On The Habit Train
At times I retreat into my head and hide; I have to
so that I can fly
to destinations not encumbered with receipts
or by the sloth of time arrested in long lines
waiting to be groped, these days
the measure of membership
in the flock of consenting sheep.
My mind, a place where shy nymphs occupy imagination;
my mind, a space at odds
with the mob and adopted inclination.
The big gang Humanity
immersed in pink lemonade thoughts
executing algorithms of homage
- a mere rung above robots -
to insignificant achievement including the effortless act
of awakening
daily trumpeted in by a beastly yawn,
a jagged cube of sound unleashed
into the rectangular abound
as chambermaids finish mopping up the night dream.
Morning coffee paired with glaring rays emerging
from the Cosmic Shadow and Prism
polishes anew life's half-eaten apple.
Exuding resignation I grapple
with another day on the habit train
as it gains velocity and displacement
from the starting station
on rails smoothed to a layer of shining atoms.
No new discoveries to be had except perhaps
a different view from a different seat
and here and there, a virgin face lacquered
by the latest cosmetic shellac;
the scent of corporate ladies
and the sight of curves reprimanded by square clothes,
offering too much rose for this old school sage
and too little for this pornographic age.
Woman transmogrifying into man, the original hunter
and natural penetrator,
and gentlemen compressed by the new power paradigm;
still nine hours adrift of treasure island
in the insane sea
where barkeeps with bouncing bosoms
toggle trays balanced with hard drinks
and decompressing beers, the jury of my peers
too numb to turn against the tide,
having decidedly succumbed to the task at hand.
I continue to belong to no one and to no kind,
to nothing but the meat upon my bones
as I find my comfort spot on the habit train
in the seat adjacent to an exit.
At times I raise an air sword
and take hacks at all that's amiss
then rebuke myself for not holding longer
this needed duty on the edge of the abyss;
self-disgust at not turning the clock like an eternal fire
nor probing the depths of the boggy mire.
Slowly I float back to the drying dock of sobriety
which awaits unmolested for my return,
like a tight-lipped lass
holding talcum under moist armpits
whilst gaping at the Sun through fashion glasses
as the latter drops embers upon the horizon;
lonely, minding the marine,
biding time before the darkness blossoms on the dunes
and brings slithers in all manners and forms
in proximity to her wide-eyed dorm.
Sometimes I lie dead and randomly chiselled,
a cold hard stone abandoned to the morrow
and fresh random fisticuffs
between the swelter and the drizzle.
Copyknight@December.27.2017
UncleZook
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