Rock. Hard Place.

Rock.

Or a hard place. 

Be a rock, 

put on a hard face,

Stuck in a cupboard, 

Dust in my eyes 

Glass coats cutting into my personal space, 

Shoe racks and sharp hats

Belts, braces and emotional races

Shoestring waistlines that waste time and fluctuate. 

Back and forth

choosing in which direction is best to piss, 

And then the wind decides to twist, 

And I'm drenched in a fine delicate yellow mist,

One Of my own devices. 

Such a familiar crisis

With best intentions at heart. 

I haven't quite mastered that art 

One of tone or diplomacy 

Emotions getting the better of me

A taste a little bittter, a tongue too sharp,

Standing in a cheese shop and letting go a fart 

I thought that issue was tertiary. 

A little thing unseen. 

A comment on pictures so sickly sweet, 

Posts of such a pungent reek

A fucking stinking bishop standing in the street,

Soiled trousers at his feet

diagonally unaware that of this whole fecal matter. 

A relationship barely left in tatters

The look on his boat, 

A face remote, 

eyes wide with wildfire and barbed wire

Negotiating a brand new buyer

With two adjoining brows, 

An attempt to salvage the wreck, unchecked

the surface parted by a rising prow, 

The Mary rose with malting petals. 

And mess of hate and twisted metal.

A cage that snared a rabbit 

stood stock still In the headlights,

throwing Banter and faking play fights

A party that never pulls punches

A lunch at that time of the month

Drinking from A punch bowl,

a mojito myxomatosis

A Manhattan suffering

An Old fashioned blindness

Milky eyes at first sight of kindnesses.

A rabbit so full of drink is left a little sore

And his legs will kick and scratch and his arms will score 

and he will lash out, his royal Highness

Who are you to question me?

Who are you to dare?

It is me that decides your fate, 

This drunken rabbit is really a fierce hare.

But we will find the devil in the details

Old broken words and strains of emails

fucking fairy tales, 

And hunting whales, 

A majestic hidden truth harpooned 

with Freudian molehills ballooned, 

Hot air filled mountains, 7 years growing i8

Egos inflated, and tempers glowing

All The signals show

All and Sigmund know

That weakness in the wind is forever blowing

A useless lock pecked loose by so called sibling ravens crowing

What accusations we find here, unjust 

Unjust, Way out of proportion

Feelings beyond bent through contortion

And no cautionary tale will be heard

By that rabbit or hare

Whichever he prefers

He will cover his long ears and when angered he will return 

To once again beat his chest

And shout louder that the rest, 

And let others know the lash his words can have

On those who claim he is not blessed

Hiding behind church bells

And prison cells

Distracting us with the calls of cops

Perrenial Wops and spinning tops

If this web spinning never stops 

Soon he will have run his final race,

That rabbit will find himself smashed by that rock

Or crushed by that hard place.