Running a-mock and turning each table,
I recalled a turn of events beside a snooker one.
It was dull green, though not as dull as the (in memory) windowless light that coated it.
I circled the table, though not for a shot,
and claimed the tables to have been turned on their head.
And i realised now. (I'm aware)
That i cannot stay on track of losing track.
Structure seems to achingly scrape at my fingertips, beneath keys or around pens.
Though the mind controlling them fears anything so much as
Being able to write in stanzas.
Or even. In sentences. Alot of the time.
Though i like some thing wonderfully outrageous.

I put my own skin against a test that needed nothing more than a pen, and a potractor.
My face feeling the temprature-less feel you can only get from an exam paper.
The hall run a-mock this time only with the sounds of pens scratching paper.
Ink injecting a tree, sap and honey i used to lick as a child.
Running out into the misty summer sunshine, into the clear shade beneath the tree on the left of the path before my house.
Seeing the ooze, remembering that trees may bleed too,
sliding my finger down it, some times frozen, and tasting whatever this fantastic new substance was.
No substance for that entirely could have ended up sexual.
A tree and myself.

I've honestly cleaned this up, from what is going on in my head.

They'll use it against me one day,

I'll be leant awkwardly against a white wall, on a silver chair, with black tips stopping the legs scraping the grey, dotted floors. The table before me may once have been seen as 'dull egg shell' coloured. Which is misleading, i always thought. The typical egg colour is that of skin, mostly. Lighter skin. Freckled skin.
Egg shell in the aisle, is actually a dull blue. Doused still in freckles, usually. Perhaps there was a minor mention of a duck. Still, dull blue freckled skin could still relate to the previous egg. Flesh gone off.
Any way, the man (or woman with her hair tightly pulled back into a bun, scraped across her head so that i figure without the black parts, the chair may indeed scratch the floor so that it looks like her scalp) will tell me 'Wipe the slate clean, start over'
Any I'll nod. Face against the cold wall, I'll nod.
Though inside i know, i listen, i picture a chopping board in a stupidly hygienic kitchen. I picture a wonderfully clean sponge covered in bubbles and fairy liquid, slopping away the scum and filth that covers the board. And i see it glint, shine in some unseen, unnatural light.
But i know. There are digs. Dips and slices in the chopping board, from old knives and cutlery. Accidental dents. All harbouring traces of scum. Disgusting bits of germs that couldn't have been caught and removed when 'wiping the slate clean'. They fester, lightly, and unseen.
So his/her words ride across this slate happily, like a small space ship over the surface of the futuristic landscape.
Work here is done and she's alright, release her, get her a job and get her in some flat.

My own eyes open now to the sap falling from lips of pyschatrists. My eyes blank and flat, believing and open to suggestion. I run my finger, mentally, across their oozing lips and take a commemorative lick of my finger.