Saturday, 12 January 2013


the trickle down poetics
coiffed, varnished, double dipped,
lay waste the oubliette of empathy

no balm, no salve
shall expel the foreign body that
thorns it’s path in the digital red apnoea
of each choked fallen promise
as they steal your desecrated breath

your lips are still moving

your lips are still moving even
as your face turns blue
while patience gets sicker
your patient dies bled clean of
ceramic reservoirs leeched and
cupped to a brink of clear relief
where each rating scores higher

dried tears bottled and fried
do little and smaller still
the hiding place for those who always
had another sweater


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