even an arc might be too little today - torrential

fight me

back and forth
there is nobody to argue with
solely myself - ego - I
a tough antagonist
not easily fooled
a skilled combatant
unputdownable
a persistent opponent
predicting every move
a strong disputer
never backing down

in this storm there is calm - stillness I haven't known for a while

It's about a loss of identity.

it must be in the air
unlike pollen I cannot see it
antihystamine won't work in this case
a trip to the pharmacy is fruitless
shutting all windows and batting down the hatches seems to be the only way
but while that will keep the sneezes at bay it is still no cure for the hard knott inside

you and me both

no sea to be seen
muddy feet and three pairs of socks
leaden skies of grey
a railway on rubber tyres
an ocean of bad haircuts and wigs
it took a submarine in the end to save the day

from one fuck up to another
sometimes it shrinks and sometimes it grows
one day soon you wake up and it fits again
my itch has been scratched
but the scab is holding fast
for today....

i have laundered my handkerchiefs
they are neatly folded
ready for fucked-up floods

Daily news

When your skin doesn't fit you.

You can't locate the itch.

Numb everything except your temple pulse.

Can't remember how to smile.

No looking forward.

Or even back.

Just a fuck up in a cafe with only new glasses to collect pointless tears.