“Sticky mothers ain’t they”?

A summer escape read?
What is there to escape from?
The world or system or planetary orbit,
Or the sky at night,
Or the orange grove?
Life is more than Lipstick Rock& Roll.
It a grinding, hollowing out existence.
With a rule book made up
On the hoof.
Worse in one horse towns too.
Where sidewalk clatter drowns out the din
Of exasperation with your attempts
At eking out, and fitting in.

Your inner voice is never silent.
Team player in real life?
But again no one has picked you.
So how will that work?

Where is the world of contentment?
Where in this world is respite to be found?
How many of us drain a vein, are bled?
Where is there a place of concealment,
When we all live in our head? 

This is no Philosophical cause,
Diving into a pool of freshly spilled blood.
An on looker asks "who were they"?
Another questions "Will they ever be gone from us"?
Unlikely on this planet.
Someone distant answers with,
"I know, sticky mothers ain't they?" 

© 2020 Christopher Thompson 
All rights reserved

Ogden Nash


There is no one

There is no one. No one is looking this way. No one starting to notice or beginning to be gripped by curiosity. No one at all. So am I simply another sounding board among a Myriad of voices in the chamber of horrors? I begin to scream along with their chant “look at me, look at me”. I glance at my image of chrome on a bookshelf which is just out of my reach. I then begin to whisper, listen here, or is it listen hear? I drown out myself with a succession little thoughts. I am nearing my conclusion. Yes. No. I don’t know, are all that comprise my missing vocabulary. Just these five words, and they equal my number. Five easy reasons. An equation of my hidden truth. 5 = yn (idk).

Christopher Thompson

Dawn in Buckland Brewer

Dawn in Buckland Brewer

Photo c2019 Christopher Thompson

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