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The Festival Poet

Today I invested some time.
 
In,
The space between the spaces.
Pushing through gaps thinner than the thinnest air.
A particle here,
A particle there.
Out,
Of my mind.
 
Pushing through occasional dross.
 
Brushing against the eternal tune.
 
I heard of pictures of scouse goddesses.
Cripples and rejects seeking personal affirmation in a moment of celebrity.
 
No pulse of infinity in the wheelchair bound mermaid.
 
All luxurious hair and plate scales.
 
Pushing through occasional dross!
 
I noticed that the tap of foot contradicts the rhythm of speech and song,
And if I were not so obviously exposed to genius would diagnose,
With Laban technique,
Schizophrenia.
 
There’s something in the tapping.
 
Brushing against the eternal.
 
Dissonance.
 
Close to a strand of the rope of truth.
 
Chaos theory.
 
It slips.
 
I move on.

(2012)

Other works by John Trainor...



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