Hang-ups

Still the same old hang-ups:
storm-proof body warmer
extra thick gloves,
snagged wooly scarf
coming undone
with all manner of insecurities
straggling on the coat rack
in the corner of the room

where I’ve hung my shadow
for treason, drawn and quartered
without reason. Now he hangs
about in all four corners
dispiritedly dissolving into melancholia,
conducting a cat gut psychopathic string quartet
in tune with wind warped radio crooners;
(twisting, yeah twisting, twisting the night away,
yeah we’re twisting …)

and so I’m left to my own time bomb devices
daredevil open the throttle straight into sunlight.
Trust me to have a super ego hero
no good at flying
so when the chords crash
and the tension music unexplainably
misses a beat
if I scream, who will come to rescue me?

Still the same old screw-ups:
a wall of smiling photographs
once exposed from negatives.
An invisibly supported shelf
for my self-help support paperbacks.
A mirror in the bathroom
please don’t freak - sing the song
in the morning as you brush your teeth.
Happy tunes before I see I,
and my shadow always lurking
not far behind.

 

©2006 P.A.Levy
First Published 2009 by The Poetry Warrior