Friday, 16 March 2018

the tea is drunk

the tea is drunk
the log fire dawdles
the music wanes
the seance begins 
the words cross over 
onto the page
you are reading them


the beholden poet’s clatter
is spilled in word’s that clatter
it doesn’t matter 
          it doesn’t matter 
let the seance resume

let the abscess that gathers
all the puerile aged pus 
yield to my sinus pen
be lanced the boil
drain the mind marinade
of the all the anthologies
and all the libraries of noise


can I sear this tattoo 
of the past and
brand the page anew
or water mark it
as my own

  exorcised of the poets 
the vacuoles still remain
to permeate my poems
  is there no icy pool 
into which I can dive
and emerge pristine

let me think
      let me think

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