By Chris Wilmot
A little ink stain,
A squiggle signifying nothing.
Inspired by too much caffeine,
Playing the mind like solitaire.
Like a spill of ice water,
On a bright flower filtered
With a blue light lens.
As if someone really cared.
Abstract thoughts flowing,
In the ashtray half empty.
Or is it really half full?
While a child soullessly stares.
A Tarot decks forgotten philosophy,
Of a quiet predicted future
Solemnly oozing to the past
At a smelly County Fair.
The bill remains unpaid,
A skintight forgery of thought.
Spandex and a throaty roar,
Lost in the salt shakers lair.
Stumbling to the powder room,
A cherry stem half-twisted
by the sensual tongue,
Beautiful with long blonde hair.
Half finished thoughts
Written on an oily napkin
With a phone number
From a girl who is scared.
Sweating uncomfortably,
And smelling even worse,
waiting for a call
A loved ones not there.
Concern melting away,
Ripping down a page
Of unwitting responses
To see how they’ve fared.
Inflammatory languages
And Explicit lyrics
Warn the Parents Council
While we gasp for air.