monday is cotton blue
and
cloud
smudged
and begins in a calm fug of exhaustion thats delicious
still-pond-mind makes breakfast like zen
and
washes
the
dreams from my eyes like theyre paupers feet
all without rush or buzzing static
but
later
my hands have their own life - pretty aliens
follow
muscle
memory
doing the work for the cash
and
my
voice grows an echo thats someone elses bellow
a bigger mans/who speaks without lengthy thought
and
no clean laughs or swear banter
bounce off the pinboard walls
its a blip
i know its a blip
a blip where chaos reigns mad behind the slow work
and
nothing can ever be completely finished
or satisfactorily resolved
and
where time is running short of nails to cling on with . . .
and
later i'll shave my head for control
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