AMBIGUOUS POEM by you slash me

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[I]

It is day. One of the seasons somewhere in the ambiguous middle.
You feel you’re in a stomach or a dream here - flat packed eyes jiving at the rat stars.
Stillness in an empty net, and you the elusive fish of slippery,
Cycling in circles and squares with round edges. Only you have the voice
To halt the rollercoastering old Merchant’s roads from livery.
But the blind words dangle and footle like cigarettes doffed.
Keys and fingers lost along the road to the west - lonely and trodden-tango -
Let’s get that seat all belted and buckled out of respect
For those who still may pass this barren way.
This town was once a circuit board of great monoliths named clang-less and clank-less
But Doctor Now brought the noise along with his era of erratic toys
Bridesmaided by the herb and crystal shamrock fluid.
In the seventies people made and ate spaghetti and got on with it.
These days everyone’s far too busy
Too many pressing matters that need wrapping up in last years’ paper.

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[II]

It is night now, same ambiguous season, same scale-breaking luggage bags under your eyes.
You sip coffee under pressure but that won’t do so you do what the screen told you too.
Bathe in pools of caffeine juice that was far back beans.
Let it dye your hair and soul.
To blend with the junk air and coloured plastic floor of the outside window and crack below the door.
You return, recharged to your theory, that idealogical blackmail was the abstract parasite that got the old ball and chain rolling with unease.
The plates to pile up and gothic mould to take and hold your left hand
and lead you to the zombie and vampire maker.
Now this rotation and being is one to remember, part bot, part pale,
Stockpiling doubloons - he says he’ll make you rich - in the dim wine-black night.
It’s library-ed eyes driving against your hope of day arriving early in a box.
The already high ceilings waver as limbs expand to meet them and it bangs one of it’s heads.
You’ve pissed of Guvnor, the gaffer - the king-pin top-dog big cheese who knows your face.
The one thing you can’t change or walk the grey suited early morning ginnels without. How you long to lead your limbs from the back and stay out of the line of fire.

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[III]

It is ambiguous now whether it’s day or night.
You’ve grown accustomed to the wine-black, good cut of meat, light-lack blood-lined season. You’ve been saving it for now, not that you’d ever met.
Or planned a pint under the shoe-shined, true-blue tattooed sky.
But you’ve met Now, now.
It’s frozen lake face thaws into your stem and fancy china plates for feasting - never used.
You caw, panicked about your belay life mate and how you knew you would be speaking but now have nothing to say.
A ciphered ache on your gravestone and the rest its what? Noise?
It cannot be - now the thoughts flash flood your oft out for lunch mutton brain -
“The words are right in front of me, I will see post, but I cannot read - I am the last”
You smash your theory and your china - never liked clocks anyway.
You squirm by the pothole that you bought yourself.
Cigarette doffed, you lower yourself into the milky white pit in the field by the church.
You watch scarlet fevered - the peril-stars wing their way over and under.
You do not blink - there is no time.
For a brief moment - it’s like someone turned the sun back on to blow it’s blanket wave of tan-goodbye over everyone and by everyone it’s you slash me.

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