Sliding through the tensile twisted vortex
left by tortured coils of disconnected DNA
I move with grace into the insubstantial air
with multiple crushed and creviced vertebrae.
A noosing strand of rope endecorates the wall
while shadowed hangmen rudely shelter
harmlessly, effective from today. Outside the
cloistered cosy confines of protective coated
crinoline, successive waves of hopeless jerks
convulse spasmodically my beatsome little heart.
Is this a cry for help, I hear you mutely say? I
scoff and throw my feltly hat into that (non-
existent wedding) ring and wailing rock my boat
beyond redemption’s thinly veil. Cynically I smile
my way to cold slab grin’s inevitable destiny
awaiting rattling bones [why bother?]. No sooner
do we work out who we are and grapple with
our fate than shuffling from this mortal coil we
realise it’s far too late to live the life we need.
With restless stones I cry my way to heaven’s gate
and hugely ask the kernel there to grant me wings
to fly to softsweet worlds where crumbly flesh of mine
will know such things that fly full in the face of exile’s
vast ignoble holeful moonscape-cratered quarantine.
© 2012, Alan Morrison