Monday, 10 August 2009

Poem : 11th August and I am weighed down by gravity and condiments.

Trying to run away from the sky

as if it were a bad smell

was always going to be a challenge.

You enter my brain diaphanously, 

you as a single concept illuminated by the tender pulse of the moon, like the whites of a cracked egg, 

making my fingerprints glisten.

Archaic thoughts of Van Gogh, Monet and Renoir sprout from sullen crevices of the pavement like the skin of a baked potato, 

and needless to say, I feel meaningless. 

A fraud amongst Common Fox Gloves, water lilies and arthritis, 

dissolving in the preservatives of my chicken strips wrap. 

I wait to be a million chisels of marble, 

a billion strokes of paint, 

yet the matter I consist of 

is merely mayonnaise and

a mountain of shit.

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