Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...


R G Gregory

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i've been messing about with figures all day

columns of them (pages) making mistakes

going back rechecking giving in to despair

starting again in bad light - my head aches

my eyes become reclusive in dismay


figures lie in wait for me everywhere

long black rows of them like deadly snakes

curdling my fingers - sharp beaks of prey

will have my eyes out or serried stakes

(hurled from pages) transfix me to my chair


with evening (figure-drenched) i drain away

into the sumless streets - when a cloud breaks

and pelting digits pound me from the air





because there are bosses the people don't care

the man who gets the kudos earns the worry

and worrying himself aloof he needs protection

hierarchy's this sad perpetual story

the boss in his castle the people in despair


violent rashes rise from this infection

and living hope finds solace in a mortuary

a cry for new arrangements bleeds the air

let people be equal (extolling the ordinary)

appeases fear and roars for resurrection


the people (unused to power) forget to care

errors indifference enervate the glory

and bosses are there to cash in the dejection