Stagnant

Language is deliciously tobacco
shined - rubbed to the fine tilt of a sparkle
hanging from the edge of a petty twitch,
complacency screams wild blue murder
before slipping from brittle branched cheeks.

It is caught delicately in the lap,
and looks up with blank eyes as dirty
fingernails reach solemnly for escape.

Like wet looks, it sticks to nicotine stains,
soaks in the shades of yesterday's coughing,
I flap stanzas about like some artist,
dancing a mime across a pastel shape,
it won't let go though, it just clings tightly
and spits broken grins into open pores.

To hell with it, I don't care anyway,
I'll just change the channel on this mad life,
there are adverts yet to tune into too,
on the other stations of sweet chocolate.

Stuff it! I'll let it just hug these dead bones
and shrug when you ask me the reasons why,
if I could even be bothered to do that.

Let the pillow burst this fractured mind now,
awake is just too much, these colourful yawns
are becoming active watching my hands
roll stagnant flowers of I couldn't care less!