In the bitterest night of sleepless tumblings, cold feet and crack mouth
I flip rough-edged pillows, half teetering on the brink … denied dreams.
Camden Town subpharms, where broken dollies and Curzon Cubs
trade dirty cash for ramped up lollipops or pharmacy castoffs.
You must know, my head is bigger on the inside. And doesn’t socialize
so well. And a heart that fuels a body, fuels not the dark energy in space.
Heart’s energy is dependent on blood, mucus, and solent sea proteins
(originating between Hampshire and Isle of Wight).
Ill street noise surrounds, the Pale Stone Circus, a mobile safe harbor.
I feverishly pedal the petals around our flowering culture’s reproductive parts.
So brightly colored, this corolla sustains me; the lone cyclist, the pollinator.
Of empty fields, and buzz worthy thoughts, not fit for the everyday people.
So radio waves are helping me help myself. And the videos. And the mashing.
K. Shawn Edgar | High Lighter | Lapsed of Time | Lost Pilot