Monday, 26 February 2018


the butter on this crusty life;
not the pretty words that tip toe
around the profound, like petals
softening down the thorns.
no, give me the rancid butter prose,
that lingers in your moustache,
beneath your wrinkled nose.
the clever words,
that arm-in-arm you,
before they ...
just out of the sunlight
they ...
knife you in the guts!
those are the words that words fear;
for they will soil their reputation,
will bear no repetition.
these are the words i am searching for. 
stake the kid glove words 
in the moonlit clearing,
and we’ll await the tiger’s clause.

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