Thursday, 1 October 2009


Why bruise a fresh fruit
if rotten pears fall alongside?
A sleeping alpine, ablaze, breathes
smoke into a new bloom.

Withered, a petal falls,
engulfed by brilliant arson.
The mountains are testing,
breaking open metal bonds.

Ambushed, I stagger, blindly
like a fool, grinning with red wet lips.
Heart abeating, love and grease
pump through a solid, molten core.

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