Friday, 25 May 2012

Call Yourself An Artist Man?

when words drop like petals in spring
or fruit in fall sometimes picked,
briefly savoured but nothing more,
what next  Moon? June?
for fucks sakes pass the sugared spoon
that I may cook myself a swoon away
from these cloying clichés
I should ink these words into my flesh
carve a blue belief not surrender to the barbed relief
of a working wage dangled before my eyes
but the mouth’s of babes and their damned truth
emasculate all I bring to bare
today better maybe to zip it away than wrestle naked
with the less than paronymous
for at the blind tasting of a lifetimes struggle
how shocking will it be when the mask is lifted 
and the parochial font is revealed to be me

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