Friday, 7 January 2011


Here again this florid
prose that
I think in, in
particular on nights like this -
if any have been or
will be -
and the parts of my
mind in charge of such
string sentences together
all intricate, like pre-
concrete architecture. but
without the blueprints
being laid down first.
There is a garden in my
head, I think - that thought
itself cliché, unoriginal sin -
and it needs
and defending against all
the dull-witted television,
newspapers and drink,
because, unless
it's nurtured, the coils
of it's climbing roses will
never scale up beyond
the weathered
wooden arches that I
fancy line the inside of
my skull, behind the
sockets of my eyes,
and make it out through
to pure blank paper
for my pen to find
and with its ink
get watering, dress
the petals up in the promise
of some different morning's

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