Thought of divine.
Put up your hand.
How do you do YOU do it?
“Stick em up – stick up”
Something different again.
Where did it come from?
And as I share,
I look nobody in the eye.
For when I speak, there is only I.
And I am in the world, and you are there to listen.
To watch to guess and to follow only.
There is little more to it.
Just a hand, waving.
The genuine surprise,
politeness of speaking in turn.
Time to formulate an idea.
“You have three opening paragraphs”.
The magic comes in the commas.
I imagine if they were written: Each comma, written comma,
considered comma, debated comma then, rejected.
Espresso riddling my mind.
Its so much better like this,
why has it taken me so so long.
Add very little to your body-
only the very best and it will all work out.
It should all come off.
only the best will remain-
my wandering brain thinking of more important things.
I don’t see me putting my hand up.
That moment of consideration;
like fire getting going.
hand up, like a fire work.
Erupting over the grass.
Irrupted dewy dells.
Thoughts scaling, bouncing on a grande atomic scale.
Less resistance, and then…
Lazy, harrowing orgasm of a thought.
Something new and unexpected.
And I like putting my hand up.
Eureka it spells!
Both, seriously ‘BOWTH’–
like an ass.
And only a few polite thoughtfuls (not I)
only few thoughtful individuals perceive its merit.
What’s wrong with the smalls?
Where do we want it to go?
I’m going to the toilet.
No hands up in the bathroom.
A stickup in the bathroom never goes down well.
Its a rough neighbourhood and we can see why.
Put your hands where you need them,
beside yourself maybe-
you’ll find something.
And you think you need a KEY?
A language, inside and outside, you are the narrator.
Are we writing for ourselves or others?
The skill, finess and form.
Dig deeper. Geeker.
Get out. Horror of hot headed, unheard of heralds of homework haunt my homely happiness. Like the french “HANDS DOWN”.
Close your eyes and kiss that goodbye, french…
So what i’m trying to say it “can you pull it off”.
and by that i’m talking about how you write.
And the pen is not a symbol for anything else.
I mean- that your writing and referencing a Leonard Cohen song is all fine and dandy , while this poor young interrupter can’t use the word ganked.
I’ll lay a trap for you all there and probably hotly debate over my own thoughts with yours all imaginary.
He wrote about Leonard.
You wrote about Leo.
You were a shortcut to play.
His was grief and death.
You’re all talking about the same thing.
I will defend you both unequally.
My prejudice wig of human caring.
Philosophy of aught, naught and tort.