A poem for the next five days or so

I have decided to write a poem. I hope it lasts for five days at least. It may last a little bit longer. The poem is a free-flowing poem and adhere’s to no particular stanza, pentameter in any shape of form. I have written poetry, philosophy and how to media tips for a while so it should be ok. Here goes, let me put the poet into action and see what develops.

Here is a poem for five days or more, a place where were going assured,
in the knowledge that everything moves slowly,
as if you are walking in mud,
or running in Wellington’s and shotgun on the back like Elma Fudd,
looking for that crazy rabbit and Donald the duck,
running around not very fast,
because life dictates if we were born the right way,
and I splash and I splash in the puddles we meet,
and shuffle around like Elvis on the street,
Or Shaken Stevens on a broken down green door in the tip,
with a stone in the middle that acts as a sea sore,
jumping up and down,
stomping stones up of the floor,
look over there that looks like a river,
throw in a flat stone and see how many times that it bounces,
look at the dog and the way that he pounces,
I feel like lurch with a lead in hand,
and feel so or-quad wearing a watch and a band,
and I think of Disney and Warner Brothers and how they begun,
in the way that they entertained everyone between films,
the speed of an intermission,
the repetitive patrons on the left hand of the auditorium refrain from smoking,
whilst the woman behind me expressed how itchy her heel was and the guy next to her,
spilling popcorn on the rest of his meal,
and the green chilly with dip and nachos,
outside Macdonald’s, the chicken shop and the Chinese,
the pub round the corner and the birds in the tree’s,
the twittering noises and the room with a view,
the windows empty,
beyond that I knew.

The sanctimonious future and the bits in-between,
the eyes,
the vision and the Oden big screen.
The barks,
the street lights and the white snow drops,
the road blocks,
the digging noises,
the stamping of back feet,
like soldiers expressing discontent,
in tandem to the sound of ringing in the ears and the behind sound cheers,
it’s behind you and when are you going to give us something to cheer about.

The clapping sound,
the depression sound on the ascension of the bus brakes.

The wheelchair,
the track, the circuit,
sax and drum,
the squeaky toys,
the boys and the measuring belt,
the worn out bottoms,
jeans that require hand stitching,
the need for something,
now I understand the stamping.
Its to express, to evoke and to laden the weight, like exhalation of all the pent up love of poetry.