Breakfast

i’m not gonna tell you pretty lies, i’ve neither the time nor the inclination

someone else can regale you with gussied up tales of right and wrong

fast food fist fucked fractions, feeding fallacious fictitious factions

i’m here to alliterate, bullshit and chew gum (yep...all out of gum)

my lies will be ugly and brutal, yes; but so will MOST of my truths

my lies will be a hectic schedule less montage of juxtaposed moments

but my truths will be there in the morning, while the toast is still hot

looking balefully across the table, over the cornflake box, the sugar bowl

my lies will cough awkwardly, cutlery will tinkle on nervous crockery

yet my truths harbour no conversation and even less eye contact

the light from a clumsily lit cigarette, a spark in this morning's dark

the tea is slowly stirred as both the past and fast are broken

my lies will disseminate piece by piece, a measure of both word and time

tiny whittled slivers of taut see through flesh, scratch and release

i will cast these pieces to the winds, the gods and the unknown

a dyslexic jigsaw of ancient numbs and breakfast crumbs