A BLATTER OF WORDS

 

The cadence of my words, they rise to fall like my being, a disability searching for nature to find a flow state, aphorism. 

Words seem to be very flat just like 

my body lost of all stimulation 

my words seem to have lost

 The very essence, poetry, one word just like another. I hit and hope the pome works in you like a blatter of bullets from the past, 

bullets and poetry don’t go-no go-area. Confetti.

 

Words reload a rifle magazine, they miss

Their target, me on a dark lonely Belfast

Street bullets dancing at my feet froze

With fear to the spot a man I know as

 

Brian Smyth grabbed me by the scruff.

These are a blatter of words sounding

From the harsh causeway.