Fly in the Ointment

Ventricles and spectacles, testicles and obstacles,

Onomatopoeia has that crash, boom, bang.

The Sun always rises in the East, in the East;

The meat is always carved before the feast.

Blue is the colour:

Of sorrow.

Of the sky.

But colours never answer the question:


Alleviate and deviate, masturbate and conjugate,

Metaphors and similes, like a murder, or a gang.

The world is always changing: getting bigger, getting smaller,

People stay the same, full of rage, but maybe taller.

I am wise but I am simple, I am smart but I am dumb,

But at least I’ve come to realise that I’m not the only one.

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