My protest day: Part 2, poem

I’m waiting for the song in me
To materialize

I gave up on this line
It just wasn’t my size

I brought a new kettle
I plugged it in
Carefully

New plugs are always perfect
Or maybe not
They don’t like my electricity
Sometimes they go
Bang
In my ear
And the kettles nervous system
Breaks down
Like me
I’m like a bunch of
Wiring across the ground
I’m like
Flood lights in the evening
When everything turns silvery blue
And people wonder
When’s he coming out
When’s he gonna do it
It’s pitch perfect
For the game
Of one man
And his blues

I have endlessness
In one hand
I have nothing
In the other

The instructions
Lie scattered
Across history
Like secret code

I have a magnifying lens
That shows TV
The sirens sound
The searchlights start to sweep the ground

I know a bird
She visits me often

But I can tell
She is far away from me

And I cannot fly
Up to her heaven

Yea though I walk in the shadow
Of the rolling stones
I will not bear arms
About you

Yea though I hide in the cave
Of the prophet
I only remember the psalm
In blue

Yea though I do
Yea though I don’t
Yea for the bank account
Yea for the vote

I got moles
Crawling out of my eyes

I’ve got knives
That cut the shadows
That fly in the valley of breath

I thought I knew you
Oliver
Mary Poppins
I sang to the sound of music

Yea though I walked
In the shadows of the mountains
Yea though I swam
In the trench coats of the sea

Where no one
Could see me

Not even her

I got a pile of stuff today
A rusty axle
A bucket of clay
As you sort thru
My second hand lot

I hope you have
What I have not

I’m making a self portrait
From all your names

Who am I?

I’m building a clock
Outside your castles

Who am I?

I’m going home in time
I’m digging about
Looking for help
From the past

There’s no one

Homeless in my soul
I walk to the shop and back

I have a box of identities
That do not fit

I pretend to be a friend
To the moorhens and pigeons
Along the A5

If I smile
Hang me on a nail
From the canal bridge

I’m having fun
Wringing my hands again

In poems
Made from rags

This is a bad day
To get lost in the self confidence
Of a clown

There I go again
I can’t help it

I hear a lot of voices
But I don’t see any faces

Author: blackbird212012

I am interested in multimedia work: songwriting, art, and creative writing. I have been involved also in theatre and music performances.

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