Back in Broken Directions
Tackle a Jack of all trades
Dismayed at a junction without lines
Where a car can crash on instruction.
One eye working on behalf of another
No big deal just a function An alternative to reality
Bullied internal questions crushed
Must be the weather, or the pressure from blowing.
Showing a weakness
Unable to hide
Sat beside the discursive equation
With qualified chieftains waiving the creeping illusions
Repelled by building ships into seaside bunkers.
Levelled by a sand shifting crane;
Driven down to hold up buildings
Of glass that you can throw stones in.
Bold and best left to chance
The bargain basement
February 24th 2018 Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright
Buckle up Crash Time
Stacked with sparkling party popping blisters
Insisting that loved ones are stalling Falling,
Calling out for help
Difficult to keep up
A cup in hand catching the sprinkling shower
The grim truth balanced on a broken swing
Pimples plastering mirrors already grubby with tears.
Fears shaking an otherwise spirit to be awoken
Soaking locals from the deranged apartment building
Slopping out the window
As the duct is stuffed with plastic
Too late to get the change
Rhetoric is still sticking to newspapers
Like burnt-out frying pans
Like a crushed apron theory
Back to me Meant to come to an end I know
Sharpening the knife
Cutting the ribbon
January 6th 2018 Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright