No Quarter

This peel that clings to me like a wet shower curtain
its tentacles that suck dry my small courages until

all these dehydrated excuses are stuck on the roof
with the past indigestibles making my mouth hatch

the next words into snarled unattractive clusters that
swarm and form too unrehearsed into all the wrong

shapes that are easily anticipated and service returned
with a sting for good measure whose poisonous taste

I’ve come to recognise as a signpost that points clearly
to the pointlessness of our roundabout path all ways

unfolding to take its toll in miscellaneous increments yet
unnoticed in the pile of years carried on the camel’s back

another grain of sand upon its toe yet to yield a pearl
of satisfaction, so long as half of what we say is wrong

and the other half isn’t allowed, so long as all we’re willing
to learn from each other, is how to roll our eyes out loud.

Lindsay McLeod currently lives by the sea on the Southern edge of the world, where he trips over the offing every morning. He has started messing about with words again lately, after a few years away. You might expect him to know better by now, but oh no.