Tom, A dialogue Options

[Arnfinn]

With thanks to Snow.

Same words different arrangement.

Thank you.
John



Tom

Tom, trapped in a world of smug acceptance.
The illiterate soul waiting
for Saturday and yester-years cartoons.
Tom, neurons strained by dim voltage,
pressured and screwed down to acceptance of no acceptance.

Existence is a blank page.
Institutional remedies reflect featured smiles,
and pats of good boy sentiments.
Good for whom?
Not for Tom.

Tom is an alcoholic—wants out for a drink.
Pressure—pressure—pressure.
He sits in the foyer… helping out where he can.
He craves a schooner.
He can see in his “minds-eye” the grey misty glass and the frothy head.

“No, Tom you cannot go out—no bus trips for you”.
“You sit in your chair and do something.”
He gives a smirk; can’t wait for Saturday.

John Macleod © 2012


Original:

Tom

Tom trapped in a world of smug acceptance.

Tom the illiterate soul waiting for Saturday and yester-years
cartoons.

Tom, neurons strained by dim voltage, pressured and screwed down to acceptance of no acceptance.

Existence is a blank page.

Institutional remedies reflect featured smiles, and pats of good boy sentiments.

Good for whom?

Not for Tom.

Tom is an alcoholic—wants out for a drink.

Pressure—pressure—pressure.

He sits in the foyer… helping out where he can.

He craves a schooner.

He can see in his “minds-eye” the grey misty glass and the frothy head.

“No, Tom you cannot go out—no bus trips for you”.

“You sit in your chair and do something.”

He gives a smirk; can’t wait for Saturday.

John Macleod © 2012

[Psyche]

Here I am, Arnie, at last. Sorry for the delay. And it's also my fault this poem is going to IBPC for August, because at the last moment I remembered that my own poem had been published, and that's not allowed with these people. I told Lori in the nick of time...

Now that Snow has rearranged your lines, I hope you don't mind if I make one or two nits, to TOT.

With thanks to Snow.

Same words different arrangement.

Thank you.

John


Tom

Tom, trapped in a world of smug acceptance. <<<<Perhaps start poem without 'Tom', as he's so close, in the title.


The illiterate soul waiting
for Saturday and yester-years cartoons.<<<<<If you put 'years', wouldn't it need an apostrophe? Not sure.. BTW, don't you mean Tom is sitting among those cartoons? Or will they be wherever they take him on Saturday?

Tom, neurons strained by dim voltage,
pressured and screwed down to acceptance of no acceptance.


Maybe:

Tom

Trapped in a world of smug acceptance,
an illiterate soul waiting
for Saturday, amongst yester-year cartoons.
Existence is a blank page.
Institutional remedies reflect featured smiles(,)
and pats of good boy sentiments.
Good for whom?
Not for Tom.


Tom is an alcoholic—wants out for a drink.
Pressure—pressure—pressure.
He sits in the foyer… helping out where he can.
He craves a schooner. <<<<<I had to look this one up!! Perhaps it's used in Australia?

He can see in his “minds-eye” the grey misty glass and the frothy head.
>>>>>>I don't think you need to use " ..." for mind's eye.


“No, Tom you cannot go out—no bus trips for you”.
“You sit in your chair and do something.”
He gives a smirk; can’t wait for Saturday.

Will he get his beer on Saturday? Will some good friend take him out and allow him a couple of beers? Hmm....Maybe you could hint at that, sort of to round it off. But my mind is dim, over to you!

Everything is ToT, I love your poem. It gives one a good visual image of institutional life. Sad, but true.

Love, Syl***















Tom

Tom trapped in a world of smug acceptance.

Tom the illiterate soul waiting for Saturday and yester-years
cartoons.

Tom, neurons strained by dim voltage, pressured and screwed down to acceptance of no acceptance.

Existence is a blank page.

Institutional remedies reflect featured smiles, and pats of good boy sentiments.

Good for whom?

Not for Tom.

Tom is an alcoholic—wants out for a drink.

Pressure—pressure—pressure.

He sits in the foyer… helping out where he can.

He craves a schooner.

He can see in his “minds-eye” the grey misty glass and the frothy head.

“No, Tom you cannot go out—no bus trips for you”.

“You sit in your chair and do something.”

He gives a smirk; can’t wait for Saturday.

John Macleod © 2012