Wednesday, 27 August 2014


The world spins on ridiculous pivots
mired in a myriad hazards 
like saxophone concertos
at Croydon Minster,
some slouching tonic for the soul.
Surety being,
the supposed applause of molten ancestors 

As I stand disintegrating, the
atoms flowing outward into morass
the great equivocal river
like memories, we replicate and thus, dilapidate
flowing down to a great sea of souls
palliatively soothful for 
what remains
enroute to the plummet-gate,
the coil must be rid of,
it is a brittle skin,
the journey of a skeleton.


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