Thursday, 10 May 2012

Stop Telling Tales

in the airless, guileless, black cat bunker night
I find myself lying, refracting the past

though, from this distance, through the splintered prism of my memory,
can I do anything else

be still,

so I  indulge a fibrillated, perverse unbellishment of my youth
that guns, like spring rain off a tin roof, through my graphite fingers

were my cock as alert as my mind in these wasting hours
these words could not be with you now

the uncomfortably rounded ageing feline, supine, at my side
would instead re-discover the byzantine curve in her spine

and a muse would be lost, drowned in a torrent of autumnal
localised weather

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