Pasta, mince meat, wet washing
Picked at, squeezed, flattened
Into a wafer thin construct
Squeezed to break apart and reconstitute
Squeezed to empty the fabric of moisture
Characters, scenery, dialogue
Picked
Squeezed to become believable
Squeezed to become visually authentic
Squeezed to become creatively concise
Roses and fields of red poppies
Left alone for nature to engage
Laughter, anxiety; to take the step
Or to back off, for there will be other moments
Unfolded hand, in a friendly gesture
Steady, this could be the one
Caffeine or a chocolate liquorice mixture
Hold awhile, watch the body language
Not here the hoi polloi, or the wishful thinkers
Who drink visibly, not linked to invisibility of mind
A fine, people watching space
A good place to hang your paintings
It is though a café; which whilst
Not a restaurant will still give you
Punters for you to look down upon
Somewhere to listen
To the chitter chatter
A mirrored resemblance
Of your nothingness
And then there is me
He who wants to write a poem
As pure, as sure
As your infinity pictures
The poem will be
All of the words in the world, piled
Indecipherably, one upon another
Or there won't be any words at all
No, that’s it, no words whatsoever
It's too long
It's too short
It's too fat
It's too thin
Oh no
I'm sorry
Let's see
Where to begin
The end is quite good
But would it be better
At the start
Yes that’s it, that’s it
Hit them with the punch line
Straight away
Distracted, clear of deeper thought
No room for pure investigation
The ancients, the dust, the transference
The capture of the loss of loss
Of the loss of lost itself
In white space, in black space
In skyless skies and blank seas
Without horizons, and yes, landless
Deeper thought
To play with such a thing
A fine place for resurrection
Collect the pebbles and the leaves
There in our minds to create new landscapes
