“Sticky mothers ain’t they”?

Escapism,
A summer escape read?
What is there to escape from?
The world or system or planetary orbit,
Or the sky at night,
Or the orange grove?
Life is more than Lipstick Rock& Roll.
It a grinding, hollowing out existence.
With a rule book made up
On the hoof.
Worse in one horse towns too.
Where sidewalk clatter drowns out the din
Of exasperation with your attempts
At eking out, and fitting in.

Your inner voice is never silent.
Team player in real life?
But again no one has picked you.
So how will that work?

Where is the world of contentment?
Where in this world is respite to be found?
How many of us drain a vein, are bled?
Where is there a place of concealment,
When we all live in our head? 

This is no Philosophical cause,
Diving into a pool of freshly spilled blood.
An on looker asks "who were they"?
Another questions "Will they ever be gone from us"?
Unlikely on this planet.
Someone distant answers with,
"I know, sticky mothers ain't they"? 


© 2020 Christopher Thompson 
All rights reserved

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