Saturday, 18 July 2009

Poem 18/7

You've got me by the roots of my eyes;
An air of hooks catch legs
Pulled up straight brain like putty,
Grey as guns, Babylonian skies,

Alive smells of wet wood and grass
Lasts as long as you or I,
And I am dead, and you are free
And we are mystics we blow out to sea

Without hope or rest;
Roads burn to a marriage of webs,
Our rainy tracks, rare and random,
Rain like smoke and dust and snow;

Under a bridge the rain explodes,
And lampposts stitch the sky;
I'm held together with glue and tape,
You pull apart my strands, piece by piece by piece.

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