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Shy is the poet

The Singer, the shadow

Ruled by the ego

Yet scared of the show


Safe is the poet

Content in her habit

Steady is the tortoise

So why chase the rabbit?


Magic is music

But stunted by fear

A book full of lyrics

That you’ll never hear


Prose opposes the posey

Pansy within me

Her search for affirmation

Contradict the roots to the tree


Grounded is my musing

The wordy eternal stream

Scattered is the pipeline dream

That’s running out of steam

 
 
 

Maybe, it excites me to know that no one knows where I’ve trodden.

Even the Aristocrat’s limestone griddles I drip between

Can’t catch me winding round their alleys,

As they sweat with the insurgence of poverty

The homeless laying open-mouthed in the acid rain.


And even they didn’t spot me,

Between the blending of their bones to the ivory.

These desaturates slow-bake in tort light - so sore on the modest eye.

Red-handed claps, won’t beat for the

X-Ray puppet-show of shadows.

And what a shame everyone missed it.

But, more... that they don’t.


Dust.

We all burn to a cinder here,

In some way.

Even the pocket-heavy suffer this form of decay.

I do too... but I think I like it.

Because no one knows which slab my toe has licked

As I marvel at the artisan and the beggar’s beige sick.


I’m invincibly invisible here -

Only one watching is CCTV.

And even that’s got no intention of catching me.

As I have no voice, face or presence.

Each time I return, I retreat in depression.

But that’s freedom too - as I am nothing here.

Nothing to you.

Nothing and no where.

And, neither are you.

 
 
 

Updated: Jul 8, 2019

My chest swarmed

With fluffy hysteric bees -

Bouncing giddy from high octane fumes;

Their sharp little tails

Piercing the cocoon of my lungs,

Like two rose raw balloons.


Swelling up, stretching round,

Over my heart - I pressed my glove;

Aghast! I could taste a fizzy nectar

Of which I could only define, as love.

 
 
 

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