A Different Dance - Trudie Shannon

My head is a soup kitchen with no takers,
No queues of the impoverished standing
With empty polystyrene cups awaiting replenishment
So the soup just slops, wave after wave
Endlessly swirling.
My ear is home to a hive of excited bees
Permanently preparing to swarm
High pitched buzzing seeking union
With high tech communication satellites.
Dulled improvisors in search of an invisible queen.
My stomach is residential home
To unenlightened sots permanently
Groping for solid ground, dithering with burned toast.
My legs are rebellious teenagers street fighting,
Hiding needles just under the skin
Frequently disengaged from the mother ship, my torso,
Exploring idiosyncratic rhythms
Popping to the tune of disappearing myelin.

Trudie Shannon