Talent

Body and voice seem hunted

throughout a haunting performance.

Sometimes a song,

a joke and song,

an instrument, song.

Sweet and strange

to tip-up as dancers

(not minotaurs)

but as people from streets

with hands and prints

and, here and hopeful, an older man,

teenager spinning, a green

moment, lifting red

to blue; lifting them selves,

us, up, up and up. You’re on – you’re up.

Spreadsheet

Tap into a cell again

- far too hard for me, old chap, this sum

arithmetic is way, like, too much pain

 - I need to hit the wine bar, stagger home.

Subtract and multiply and add

 - I do believe it’s time - another round:

ask my PC, Apple, iphone, ipad;

move the cursor up - along - and down.

She is a rather super looking mare

 - Paypal up an order to the bar

and we can be what, we, forever were;

self important, humbled, pissed and poor.