Spin it,
Between your index, thumb and laughs.
Throw it in the air and catch it with a hook.
Let it roll down your pale arm,
Rolling through the table,
Like a ballerina as a waitress.
Spin it by a flick,
Then a slap.
Like you did my records.
70s British hard rock to the coast of post modern.
Flappers in the roaring 20s dancing on a whim,
To the shooting of a Jamaican.
Let us celebrate the spin!
The perpetual enigmatic motion,
Watching in anticipation,
"Heads or tails?"
Nobody dares asking.
Spin it again!
Like red and black under your skips.
Like you done did it.
To so many others.
Oh, I wouldn't mind.
My life was never a straight line.
Spin it, Like wishful thinking on the papers,
In bottles, among waves and the deep end.
Spin it, Like the cylinder of a S&W 625,
And line the barrel at the stopping point.
Spin it, like you're brave enough for the answer.
Because I'm not.
YOU ARE READING
It's three in the morning.
PoetryA small collection of poems which I write when I could not sleep. Or (mostly) of my personal experiences.
