In The Scheme Of Things

gutless form of

grey flannel

and bowler hat

tapping briefcase

with finger

pencil callused

autocratic directions

of how the

shapeless should fit

tailors chalk on cloth

decisive lines

to trim or sew

mouths stitched so

neatly shut

limbs severed so that

the fall of material

should be so suitable

old money new money

contra entries

that become the washerwomans

laundry

in colonial towns

with brighter sun

and sweated brows

grey flannel choke

and soft eton tones

cruciform stretched

with benefits denied

g&t cold pink lemonade

taking canapes on landscaped lawn

take a bow doff your cap

grateful for what you

don’t receive

inbred subservience

of the golden age

long shadows

keeping us in the dark

mouth torn open

begins to shout

blood on lips

blood on tongue

strike a match

to cauterize

and light the beacon torch

flannel shadows

cannot keep us hidden

or denied

we have voices

as we are many

and you are few

 

copyyright Chris Lawrence

 

 

Sleep Bugs

mad dreams and medicine

i don’t know if either help,

body more a carcass

cast off bedding

allowing chill to bite

soon when a season twists

it will be warm

but till that occurs

sleep evasive

those small bugs of slumber

crawling everywhere

but in my eyes,

quick to become husks

on the breath that creates them

seething mass

leaving me untouched

alcohol can disperse them

fear of naked flame,

if only what i know

seen from the back of my eyes

whats true

those synaptic snapshots

of what was , is, will be

eradicating normal transient thought

more bugs with darker intention

those that bring displeasure

turn night into serrated pain

i want for them

knowing i will be covered

and absorbed