Editing at Midnight

A flick of the slick knife
cuts away the wheeze of clinging clauses
and the whirling worlds of wordy wonders
are slashed with a snickettysnack chop chop
into a pile of well ordered ideas
dropped with a thud onto a page.

The truncated stubby ends of sentences heal
under the crack of fresh mint full stops
free from the granulous gangrene of verbosity.
With no bombastic ballast the words go
flap-flap-flapittyflap and soar away
into the horizon of a new thought.

The abandoned ideas flip away
and flop into the dark corner in your head
where they gyre and spiral like
chickens with their heads cut off.
Tick turns to tock as they wait for the
clunk to click into a new beginning.

Outlines

Perhaps the world would be better in black and white.

The colour dripped out,
the landscape scrubbed with acid
to get out those nitty-gritty stains.

Spotless.

Sterile.

Simple.

The imaginary lines touch at the imaginary horizon.

A breakdown of
all that you believe in and
all that you are
into sharp angled shapes.

Meaningless.

Isolated.

There can be no sunset in grey.