Would you have your legs (or, I suppose, your arms) cut off for a million pounds? I only ask, because on the national lottery programme (on the idiot box) they asked if you were to be the next half-millionaire. I assume they mean you. I can’t afford to lose my legs. How would I run away?

Vision mix


You may be right
you there, with
your wisdom higher than
mine, and the clarity of
distance to give
your own perspective

you may have
more to say
to reinforce or
shine, a light
of friendship
burning bright

I may listen
understand, even
or at least try
against what you say

to no avail? You
think so, in your
subjectivity whilst
I justify statis
to myself

you may be right.



And is there
any other solution

to the likeness of
being trapped

out of control

aside from the obvious,
the repetitious
that is, to be

distracted again
from the moment
and then held by
a temporary fix

as the mind goes to rest
at least until the
next day
and again
then weekend
and the chance to
successfully complete
another segment of life

in the corner
the sack
full of man
makes noises
and shakes
till silence falls

and she
in the kitchen

and the sack rolls
slightly about the floor
though in the cellar
no-one hears you scratch

and she
in the kicthen
wonders if the house is haunted