Pain

In the beginning,
Way back when,
When I was younger,
I used to think of Pain
as a quantifiable, tangible thing
In your body.
Like blood.

The Fifth Musketeer to the Four Humours.

Small tumours would congregate
In my mouth
I'd lacerate
With the sharp side of my canines
'Til it all came out.

It never came out.

Excuse

So, this is how we do
We meander along meaningless rivers of bunf
Synonymous with the inebriated sway of the sotted street drunk
A series of sycophantic platitudes, beatitudes, sententious sentences
Back and forth, forth, back and forth
We go, spitting nuggets of Foucault
With topspin, So
The ball bounces at awkward heights
I set sights
On a sliced backhand down the line
It's returned
Red wine gets decanted into rants
Convoluted bants
All really an excuse, just to say hey.