The one, Red Block
dust settles, over carnage, as a protagonist weeps, without a sound, just the water: tears the size of petit-pois, pooling round their ankles, barefoot yet bound every contradiction of an unsound mind
twenty six seconds before, all of this glorious block puzzle, memories of green stacked in threes, built in opposition piled so that this time it was impossible to bring the structure down, is toast, as
Critical finds one, red block, tugging pushing, forcing fucker out, because why should they be allowed to live in peace have, eat nice things or even just exist when no-one else must build as well as them
every time they hide a block, somebody comes with roasts and ignorance before attempt is made to feed them to the mob all they want, quiet moments of aplomb not idiots to stand, abuse, then bomb
bored now, Critical pockets the block walks away, and so begins a tower's slow, considered reconstruction, hoping as the fight is one meal lighter it might stay, remain intact with calm… or simply left alone
…and you are…?
Sometimes, lucky draw, protagonist first up, whilst everyone’s still sober might pay some attention to your cause: except, of course, the folk they’d like to notice are still there, propping up the bar, waiting for their mate, the headliner. The silence in this Zoom room chat so deafening, it is time to check making sure connection has not dropped: perhaps it was stupendously amazing that clearly is the reason no-one ‘spoke’, whole room summarily stunned into shock. In time, every performance becomes test less about what they consider fine and more around exhaling validation: other poets smile, assure it’s coming that moment soon to celebrate and shine; protagonist waits, still, without a rhyme.
And So It Goes
considered rude because of a refusal to engage within the rules when those were made by her own kind and none of them provide opportunity to stack a deck in any manner but to benefit those who made the cards and so it goes every moment where a pattern shows even the faintest deviation TERF will call me rude because of the acceptance that nothing here must aggravate already Different situation or else all hands are lost and so it went as the bank was broken my punctuation was the first thing spent
S Reeson is 55 and a multi-disciplined artist, who has suffered with anxiety and depression since childhood. They increasingly produce videos of their work for dissemination via YouTube.
Their poetry has been published by The Poetry Society, Bloomsbury/One World, Flapjack Press, Dreich and Forest Arts plus many online indie journals, and they perform regularly in both virtual and IRL Open Mics.
@InternetofWords on Twitter