Thursday, 1 October 2009


When will a fresh leaf
turn in to brown,
autumn tasting memories?
You leave me bludgeoned,
my wires snapped,
my skin, torn at it’s golden mouldy seams.

This season is acrid,
I smell a storm ahead-
Mildew blasts through your halo
made of wool, wire and string.
I am eating away at my own memories;
too scared to stop. Too alive to drink.

Friction heats my anger,
a longing of tear upon tear.
For a mere hour when we could---
Gravy skin and upturned funghi
move like ships through tainted gates.
Examine me closer, magnify me!

It becomes clear, like those
orange flames, that I must
despise you, oh -

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