Perfectionism,
is the voice of oppression,
and the enemy.
It’s the known unknowns,
and more the unknown unknowns;
that’s the geist of it.
The humour here was,
like the ghost in the machine;
what you don’t expect.
I won’t flatter you,
nor give way to flummery,
or such palaver.
I was in London,
the tube trains were packed today,
sitting space only.
Soothing monotones,
lull me to a dreamy place,
but tea pulls me back.
