I just need a line to rhyme
in the scribble to quibble and dribble
from the paper plate pages of drivel
a peculiarly familial individual whose name they may say
pointed fingers their way
on the stair way well, reasonable, but guess if it sells?
Well, cells sell in oblivion’s boutique full of last week’s endless grotesque freak chic
Chelsea cheek, meat street, bleak unique streak
I just need a line to speak
to rift and roar and rail and rumble rough and tumble
to trip and to fall and to stumble
like a gum ball rally mumble from the briar and the bramble’s stamp hall collectables.
Damn understandable, thank you, under the table thumb tool.
Just like you’re supposed to.
I just need a line to go through.
Picking out bits in fits of rage from prose and plays for days in a haze such strange ways
and this is it. Isn’t it?
I just need a line coz I want it.
To coil and spoil and toil and foil and split the believers from the believable if that’s possible.
No shop no game no stop no blame
I just need a line not to change.
Greg Fiddament
illustration Nick Victor