Sunday, 4 September 2011


Those others –
they’re not you.
You see me in a different light
because I am illuminated.
I am a fool –
I froth and spill,
my vessel a drunkard’s tankard,
but I would chisel away at myself,
pick my bones clean,
revealing whatever’s left.

You could take it or leave it,
leave me barren,
shivering cold on plutonian shore,
in Arctic waste,
but I know you’d capitalise,
come back for more –
not enough to taste.

You could sculpt me,
pulp me,
I’m formless
except for my desire,
my body a hull
haunted by joy
and an animism
urging me on
to climb higher and higher
and carry you with me.

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