Thursday, 26 September 2013


Despicable, squalid,

Sprawled across the weary table

With its worm-holes and buboes,

Bruised by moment and battered by measure.
You lie there, accusing me of everything.
Oozing, dripping, reeking,
Seeking scrutiny.
I spy on you through my microscope.
Self-importance dribbles out your
Putrid pores. It grows to a bubble,
Then slows to a pop.
I know that it takes a real man to whistle in the rain;
You were right when you told me that.
But I cannot trust you.
Sometimes it is sunny when it is cold,
Sometimes tension gets rolled,
Rolled up and balled
Like wool.
The others giggle or flinch,

But I just blink bewildered.
I understand you, frog,
But not them.

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