the hills slope
around your country.
You drive me there
in a straightened
state of mind.
you wont say
who's there,
waiting for me
It could be a gran,
an old friend,
a dog, an old piping boss
it wouldn't be her though;
she went away
and something tells me
there's a chance you'll
know it daily, infini-t-ernally
the radio is cheery though;
the views from the car
window seat
a reassuring sky-full..
at least it's not
sky falling
She isn't here nor
thereabouts nor
anywhere.
You know this
but wont say it
to yourself,
even if it's
at the end
of your snout,
stirring you crazy,
spinning thoughts dry and
straining you alive,
mashing you parboiled to
a blackeyed spuddy idea -
a bad one at that!
now my fingers hurt
from the grip;
I need to let go
Fingers are symbolic