Confession Time

Standard
What is this?
This residue,
In the corners of my eye?
Salty grit from weeping dreams,
Where the unconscious world unfurls
all lifes hard picked at seams,
and bowls out all the balance,
with an ill fitting miss matched valance.
You tug each corner until HOWZAT!!
Every thought you tried to ram,
is spilling, bulging, wheedling, gathering
from the thinnest to the fat
and bursting from all crevices,
also underneath your hats,
(including Mr Stripy
your dependable woolly one-
He gave up on you years ago
when you began to hoard
and couldn’t even barter
for a shiny SUPER goard)
You spy all of the painted cracks
The polyfilla failing.
You Damn your Dam
All ineffective
brick wall and fence become defective,
your tat is taking over!!!
Woodlice start upon the march,
Segmented crustaceans that go rigid,
Livid, when separated from the pack.
Hoovering dead ones from the living
has become an essential knack
‘You need to get rid NOW!’
The woodlice they do whisper
and clatter about their business,
towards the safety of the skirting.
You can’t hoover up fast enough.
Someone call the head head head head nurse,
To tuck you and them away
and give you piece of mind
On days when they are oh so grey……….
Perhaps flying ants will come and cleanse
or a ladybird swathing swarm
Darting everywhere making air so thick
Engulfing this warm lifes tepid party trick
So that Suffocation can come real quick.
DEATH by insect to one and all.
I used to put cabbage flies in webs
To give the spiders their daily tea
And take flys out of other webs
Quite contrary can’t you see!!
 

 

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