Damn Speech Balloons

I am glad (in a sense) there is nothing
backed up in my mind demanding
attention. It means a day free of
irksome insistencies, of orphan
speech balloons – those object
specious things that waft like
someone’s deodorant – less the
inference of their being there.

Tried talking to one? I meant
a speech balloon; picture an idea
‘that Yusuf has the hots for you’ –
see words written within of
that intent. Their existence is
evidence you’ve lost the plot,
but poetry was never meant to
be unilaterally free of polyglot.

Whilst I can’t write in tongues
the thought pervades, poetry is
a shaping view that speaks in
dreams, has a common currency
assured by thought universality
means the same to different but
undifferentiated people – despite
whom or where they situate.

How does that relate to my lack of
ideas germane? Whereas I thought
I wrote for me it seems I write for a
Universe, share dreams and am tied
to the same rules of consequence.
Free of redundancy for the moment,
I peer moodily into the gloom – still
can’t read damn speech balloons.
© 29 June 2007, I.D. Carswell