Last night
there was a poem
in my head
curled and laid,
thinking about the day
rolling around my bed
“Enough of rhyme”
this poem said;
think new ways
choose new words to say.
Awesome and tiresome -
closer than you think
the poem said
and last night
that omen
turning in my heart,
felt like
prey catching pray,
all bowed beneath
an old moon calling.
“Come now threads of sleep -
for I am caught”
the fleeing poem said.
≈
He started life as a liar
pretending to know
pretending to be -
it was a game
and it was fun.
It was a shock
when he learned
people believed him,
and so, he began
to believe himself.
That was then.
Scribbling like inky flies
fallen onto barren sand
they are dribbling their grey ice now
draining to souls, pouring thoughts
from the dumb to the numb
and with blessings of the wise
their black milk flows
from the nipples of fools
to mouth-gasping shoals
they’re stealing succour of verse,
curdling the subtleties of words
shitting out their facile turds
and I watch them, circling like flies
turning truths to vacant lies.
It’s hard for me to recognise -
which one of them am I?