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[Heyworld]

Some wake to a morning made of stripes

And spend a lifetime in concave reflections;

Fantasising of labyrinthine potential

Carved by the woven hands of M C Escher

Whilst picnicking on paradoxical

Vertices; swimming in the viscous

ashtray gloop of opaque solidity

And residing in a world of pure beige

Pondering some universal colour.

Some revel in a state of voluntary

Constipation and spend the morning

airing out lethargic lungs. Constructed

by a swash of blues and pinks believing

in the autocracy of syntax

And painting it on foam walls,

forgetting the concept of conformity

And the desolate screams of prehistory

Embedded in organic limestone blocks.

Some find vanilla to be exquisite;

A form of kindness to embrace full-tongued,

Proclaiming their love only once.

They scatter themselves alongside the remnants

Of the Elgin Marbles. Locked in a cycle

of togetherness in un-togetherness;

Seeking company in the eye of an eye

of an eye of a drop from a dead sea

Where no two raindrops are ever the same.

Some see chaos as gospel in blood;

Worshiping the smoky vaporous

Fluid, finding beauty in refraction

And brushing the shimmering convection

Aside they finger their swollen coffee grounds

And know that drought is just rain un-fallen.

They push the moon away with a thumb;

An attempt to measure out Eternity

on a scale balanced by unwritten books.