It is just a body on a street street
but an incurable schizophrenic.
Just a man or woman found stuck in a jam,
the rustle in the window dresser´s pane,
wasn´t at all meant to agitate him
& the secret whispers as she passes
Will never be destiny's prophecies,
Nor eyes that look a body up & down

Wore not before it a neurotic frown.
Just a corporeal body's breathing mass,
a jelly roll in a prawn cocktail glass,
lugubrious & glaucous in dance macabre
transparently concealed in shadowy shard,
bodies in incurable loneliness.

Copyright Robin Ouzman Hislop 2003
All rights reserved

Body Schitzoid