Poetry

Everything not saved will be lost

There are a billion complex reasons behind your simplicity;
we live out each our own ellipsis.
A calaca swallowed by snakeskin that shapeshifts into taped fists
posing makeshift, save chance face slips
for the snapshot front page print.
Clamber up the monkey-bars of DNA strands,
hike the new worn ladder in her tights,
mouth caressed by black widow legs on this stratosphere sized spider’s web
criss-crossing chaos plot looped by connecting threads.
Silken silver absent lining, holes to let the light draw in
swing across a myriad of arachnid-men.

How sad; my role models were all spandex-clad.
Grappling in squared circles,
simpler apartheid morals.
Portly plumber boys easily controlled
by pushing the right buttons
and waggling joysticks, little changes
still scared of blank pages and expectations,
just a little less rewarding. No high score counter for
the unending inadvertence, the wear and tear of lingering,
these zoetropic ruminations,
and their resulting damage control.

Samuel Kendall