Sunday, January 11, 2009

Graeme Jamieson - Foot Traffic & Trampoline

Foot Traffic

Confined by the limbs of claustrophobia
Cursing quietly the uncertain of stride

Determined to cut through this disturbia
Dirty is every glance to the side

Goache is the current of the guileless
Grievance unto others but a mystery

Lost within fogs of listlessness
Lulled into a false sense of maturity

Publicly dispossessed of purpose
Positioning an unfathomable idea

Volunteering for a game of versus
Vacuous to the point of insincere

Unstudied in the movements of union
Unaware by selfish degree

Yearning only for a straight line to yon
Yes, neighbor, peripheral vision is deceased


The pollution of external dialogue
Spewing forth as a so-what aside

From a soddened, muttering mad dog
With only himself in which to confide

Perhaps he’s a sooth, a vagrant seer?
More than likely a hopped-up bum

Should I listen or laugh; why must I fear?
There is, after all, nowt wrong with asylum

But let's say I to engage Mister Gabber
If only through a squint of salvo

Would he smile at my counter-chutzpah
Or cut me down with spitting vitriol?

Yet if it's poetry, I would recognize it
If it is gibberish, I should know

But I could get stuck fast; best cut to the quick
I’m on the clock, in the end; places to go

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