poem or prose (27/Sept/18)

should I write a poem
or should I write prose
no one can tell me because nobody knows,
should I write in short-line
or should I write in long, letting my thoughts swim away hooked upon a hook with rhyme as bait to tempt away from just another bring day,
should I write nonsense
or chart a narrative
tacking for some clarity some parity of time,
should I conjure modern verse and keep it terse or borrow some poetic curse, delusions of an epic that just in a jot could lose the plot becoming a polemic,
or should I just go freehand, free-form, a consciousness of streams all-aboarding trains of thought chugging forthright down the line between the rails slicing wind-swept platforms leaving passengers with tickets-raised waiting for yet more delays and spotters of the trains that gaze in awe and adoration,
but then there is the question of decay
as random as that sounds
where intent and direction meet, clash and fight for dominance which is nought to do with dominoes and much ado with what your nose is telling me of which way I should go
poetry or prose.

© 2018 robert greig

eye-drop moments (26/Sept/18)

it feels as though the only time I find a moment of peace is when I’m putting in my eye-drops… a single task, pure focus, if in a slightly contradictory sense… I always sit to do it, rest my head on cushions and first one then the other, drop, drop, blink, blink, close, hold… still… stretching a moment into a minute… hold… still… nothing moves not even me… the initial welcome coolness imperceptibly warms matching my body temperature… blink, blink, open, blink, blink, open… wipe away drop-tears glistening on the underside of my lower lid… then it’s over and the world stridently strides back in on specks of dust and skin bringing with it all the discord and dissonance glaring and threatening, staring into my bright shiny new eyes looking out… I don’t know who I’m trying to save anymore, or why, having been in what feels like a holding pattern for more than ten years and maybe even more… when was the last time I felt a sense of place or even a sense of time, when was the last time I felt safe?…… people spend years chasing contentment never to find it, I’ve given up on that, of all the goals to have for a goal it’s the one paved with near-misses and close-shaves… I have the scratched graffiti on me to prove it… is it better to want and want or simply surrender and with any luck at some point be surprised?… good old expectation again, a human curse, I wonder if other animals suffer this sufferance…… this lot is up for auction, place your bids early as it’s a one-time deal and when it’s done it’s well and truly done, over and out, so get it while stocks, of one, last… the blur has settled now, two happy irises, ready as they’ll ever be to spend the day being filled with yet more crap until I once again have an eye-drop moment…

© 2018 robert greig

off-key (23/Sept/2018)

the car becomes a hide, (hidden), simply sitting
still
no one sees or notices or pays a crumb nor smidgen of attention, I am
invisible
not here, not anywhere, under the radar making not a sound, I’m making
silence
and a virtue of my absence
the car
is a refuge
parked or on the move where wind is screened and mirrors give me eyes
in the back of my head
a turtle
snuggled up inside its shell
a missing piece of the puzzle, lost in translation, taken for granted, a second
glance
at best a déjà vu, shading in the shadows, offset, off-kilter, off-key, off the
chart
outside the world.

© 2018 robert greig