Defences Down [creation Myth #4]

You're doing it again, counting the germs;
Their division exceeds even your mutterings
that blur to a hum that sends the poor dog whining
for the door. His scratching creates yet more

worries as the criss-crossy lines emulate
the intricate hair-dents that map out your life
in your hands.

Count them again, who knows your sour fate
if you stopped. But then again, this slumber song
sings out above thought, meaning or taste
in sinusoidal form

your moods emulate your pendulous frustration
that somewhere the bastards might get together
and in guerrilla formation, take on the world.

Thus this shield of antiseptic babbling
is formed of a web of the infinitely obsessed
who today have rationalized, and unilaterally
stopped.

by Simon Huggins

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