Ideas move like wind slapped ribbons. Tiptoeing on cubically edged wooden frames, on flatly stretched fabrics.

Waiting to jump, catch and tame the flapping tongues.
Splashes of colour on to the envelope of flesh.

Like a damned curse on one's soul,
never try to go against the price of a good night sleep.

Buzzing, whooshing, humming.
Disconcert, uneasiness, abandonment to the strangling hold.
A Night in a recovery room.

Free association works just as well,
in between the lines, empty vessels, awaiting their filling.

Dry river beds back to life,
like rushing veins,
pushing the past and the old, spirit-soiling, mind-bending condition,
for it had enslaved me.