Too Much Stuff

You conspire
to your own delusions,
you try to sell sand
on the beach.
Control freak, master
manipulator, you apply
puppet wire to relationship,
but I won't be your
marionette.
You pull strings
with the woe-is-me,
and to you a clock
has no hands.
And all along
the French edges
of your demure accent
comes oscillations of
persecution, hallucination,
or the contention
you seem to ascribe
to everyone.  Well read,
odd head…single bed.
I drink scotch to wash
away your aftertaste.
Kiss any cold stone
reality leaves behind,
stand bow-legged
with a free hand, and
get off to your own
freakish vibrations.


30 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
9-19-16