Feeling guilty is the way I am - tho nearly prefixed
with not, but whatever controls equilibrium says a
wiser play on words wouldn’t plot against flat-ego
intrigues: mate, you’re even aren’t in the league, if
y’ know what I mean - too busy analysing dreams,
as if that’s all there is - & it’s probably as near true
as being acutely aware just you’ve had ‘em; that’s
by the bye now anyway as the coffee’s cooled off
So we re-enter our comfort zone of th’ ceiling fan
which dislocates concentric extremes of egotism,
you’re doing it your way to my rhythms it says; of
course I reply - there isn’t an alternative viable for
scratching thru the rubbish heap seeking morsels
that even you’d deem amenable to true creativity
Which is why, it says, I leave the writing to you …
© 5 March 2018, I. D. Carswell
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