Another short form piece that distils madness into more madness. How does anyone write poetry without feeling like a bit of an ass?
In a plastic shop, with a brain now unhinged,
Stricken by hunger and broken by reams,
Of information come tumbling like packets of string.
Sometimes when I stop, I wait to catch up.
It’s a bitch of a time, running circles on spot,
Watching someone ahead who’s fallen to flop.
So I stop and stick quick, and inhale noodled plastic,
Feeling the taste of salt and cool splashback.
Waving my arms, head just above static.
For the world swirls in a sea, whether blue I’ve forgot
And for that we are grateful
But for that we are lost.
Words copyright Matt Vesely. Image copyright David Keen.