Bedbugs XIX

Bedbugs XIX




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Your life is an atmosphere I couldn’t breathe in and
no matter how much sunshine
is pumped in the flowerbed,
it’s still artificial. It’s often a coin toss as to
whether your heart will skip a beat but we
drive on relentlessly and turnabout is fair play, it squawked.
Ignore it. Rent a dictionary if life doesn’t make sense.
Metal implants, brown curls twisted in envy on the
machine intended to replace a little girl.
On the roof, six of them; maybe she’ll climb on top.
It’s turning to fall before my very eyes and somehow,
it’s windy, indoors. Killing time by killing thought.
I unplug everything and tell her I’m deemed
a hero, but nothing’s on so happily I
don’t get the message. They forgot me
before I was born. How many sounds of colors
get fractured with the scientist’s best intention? Promised
to be the way it usually is, but the trick was we
can’t remember that time. I hold the plastic
figure and pretend it cares. It works if you think
hard enough. Locked inside for the rest of it.





Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:



-after all this time, minds change
-no room for you anymore
-energy in short supply
-wait outside the old house until 1
-dead by any measure
-souls for sale
-You won't trick us again


-Adam