autopoem 2: Clearage

Halfway between sleep and wakefulness. Words. Big, brash words approach. It's physical. I write them on a pad and they go away to be replaced by other snatched phrases. If not, they dominate and hurt and fill up the field of vision with prehistoric stone force. Slabs of cranky dangling phrases from nowhere to where.

turnpages
sponge
splutter guts 

spitcan

tomorrow's sad backslide
fallow days
catchpenny orphans

O Boy!
Fudgemallow bother and bodgery

Owlish yes men
disco ghosts
stump dodgers
swampies
guts and guns and Miserilou

Fie

The cold walks
barren
brave