LIVED-IN
It’s only poetry
It’s no big deal
It’s no opening for Mensa
It’s dreaming of a start
in mankind’s arresting
fall from grace and
a beginning of all, an
ideal-card like sombre
tune.
The corridors of power
are lined with cells
a nurse-white cometh
to end it all
for you too.
Sit staring at the wall
naked in a shirt
plain mattress and
a plastic cup
of water.
Wander lonely as a
paranoid schizophrenic
full of lived-in
experience
Speak forty languages
opening the door
and peering through
that which others
seek to slam.
Dreamin’
I’m always dreaming
