No Internal Expression ~ by Bob Kesh

It is easy to fall out of favour.

Barriers and boundaries

keep us adequate,

tolerable,

humble even.

Breaking boxes is rarely frowned upon

though usually produces a scowl.

Some are intrigued

but few are fascinated.

A man once asked me to paint him a picture,

‘Paint your own goddamned picture!’ I told him.

 

Some lines are so

clear to walk, but the blurry ones

make men.

And I’ve always understood this hoard

of objects as

unnecessary,

less so than food,

or drink,

but somehow more coveted.

But why

buy

an

off road car

and still drive

on the road?

And the man behind the roadster that drives

40mph.

Max it!

Foot down,

till the peddle tears up shreds of tarmac

and sprays sparks out behind,

eyes wide,

bright,

teeth bared in a mad smile.

But life at that pace

is sometimes hard to keep up.

You have to pull over

every now and again.

But there’s no lesson

in that.

It takes a horrific full speed

wreck,

twisted metal, mind and bones.

‘You don’t tap

a brake. What’s wrong with you?’

 

 
The eyes are probably the maddest of the senses.

You can look

at a man,

with a tatty old

matchbox,

striking matches

for yellowed

and broken cigarettes

grinning

up at

the overcast sky

and see nothing more.

Some see more meanings

or should I say

feel.

But you gotta to be outta your mind to see the whole

picture.

A colour-blind man who knows blue,

and a painter who sees in numbers.

Einstein once said:

‘A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?’

A man once twisted his face

at me

as I smashed a mirror.

‘That’s seven years bad luck you know?’ he told me.

‘That’s only ‘coz you see all the angles’ I replied.

 

 
There’s a sign on this wall.

On

this wall,

there is a sign.

No internal expression’.

I wonder if the man who wrote it

knew

he was a genius.

Other people

have seen this sign too,

and spit in rage,

and spewed up words,

(much like I)

and plastered up

colourful paintings

with spray cans

and heavy rollers,

on this once bare wall.

 

Though it is Winter now

and the layers I have

are all wet and

feel thin

and

I must find

shelter,

I will take this wall

with me.

bobkesh

A writer and musician from London currently studying at the Faber Academy. Generally nocturnal, he can be found indulging in all the pleasures and pains of the night.

Contact him at bobkesh @ hotmail . co .uk (with no spaces)

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