Copy writing.

A bag

of words hang

tight round my neck.

It’s free of yeses and no’s and filled instead with maybes. I close them up 

and protect them from the simple - from the direct - From the sniper rifle thought and it’s logic.

But when time comes for testing it comes as Sometimes and refines the tongue to speak only in points. Sometimes the tongue gets too sharp and pierces the bag - allowing it’s contents to pour out of it like a

Ruptured artery

creating panic

at the

exposure

of pure

liquid

vernacular

power

opened

to the

elements,

to the

pollution 

of

propriety

to the 

opinion

to the 

edit

to the

merciless

purge

of

loquaciousness.

Hands are on it – smothering it trying to stop it from spilling - from depleting the bag of its natural linguistic nutrients only to reel back in horror at the stain of wasted words between their fingers.

But eventually the blood stops.

The bag is emptied.

and the words fail because they have no other purpose but to flow out and away like 

                                                                                                                               caged pigeons.

There. 

It’s done.