The Working Wounded

To the tune of: Soundgarden – Black Hole Sun

Gogol #3

Shards and splinters at the centre of the black
Rotating, clashing, pulling
I look down, aghast
And draw my lapel across,
daintily, hoping it doesn’t show.

Even so;
it gnaws and itches;
grinds nerves and memories
together beneath my shirt’s pun like
matched ends of a broken bone.

I walk on.
It doesn’t show.

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About GriddleOctopus

There are few harder things in life than introducing yourself, especially in print where mellifluous nuance can turn to indulgent wankery. So. I am definitely a 'writer'. You could also call me an 'artist'. I could probably put the words 'designer' and 'consultant' here too, but they feel crass.