Public Poetry. 20100606.


Sleep is for prisoners. A way to block out the constraints placed upon them. If only for a short while in each cycle of 24 hours.
But you can’t sleep; you sing to yourself and to anyone who will listen in the edges of brightness and darkness.
So beautiful that only the brightest of diamonds are allowed to trickle into the depths of her being.

The tongue of a mistress
The markings of mackerel on skin
Greasy like your hands
A sign of work created by malice
Hair may well shine
But eyes are dead
A smell of sulphur, ready to explode
a chemical voice into my ears

Downhill we roll,
wrapping ourselves in sweet coatings of stable roots

Grey cheeks, pallor flesh
But I am still pink on the inside

Your wings are cumbersome
And cling heavily to your body as if alien in being.
I will give you freedom. I will pull away from your flesh those hurtful wings;
Unload the burden of torturous extensions.
You’ll feel lighter, your feet will grow new claws
You will push out and stand heavy on the ground due to purpose.
You will not drag your sorrow any more.

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