My thoughts are silver herrings, darting.
Sometimes I grab a hold of one,
But they melt
I’ll see a splash,
But I can’t touch
The taste of success not quite on my tongue.
Only smell it,
I like to share my thoughts with Robyn Thompson
At 131 Elizabeth Street.
My thoughts are bedrock
On which I can lay foundation
If I read the instructions right…
I draw inspiration surreptitiously
From my subconscious.
Because I was sleeping, but it was awake.
“I’ve been spun to…”
The incredible cupboard of consciousness
In which my thoughts reside,
Sometimes gets left open when Timothy waltzes away with an idea.
It will never result in anything because
Thoughts are ephemeral aurora and unreliable compasses,
They are marshlights not to be trusted.
C’est vrai, ils sont chimérique.
They wander far and wide, seeking someone to listen,
And are easily lost in the depths of the pools from which they came.
Hutt International Boys’ School, Upper Hutt