Sunday, 17 October 2010

Poem : Gluten and Mustard

The most ordinary of men
are made entirely out of steps
leading to a concrete singularity
sitting effortlessly out of reach.

We engage in an exchange,
unfathomable faces of Icelandic rooms
and three layers of gravel.

The mindlessness of stars are born into the adoration of the body.

A verbose queen with twice as many noses,
sifts through these failing advances.
The creator laments from an apartment in the trees
as his muscular discs contract
with gravitational shift.
Two moons orbit his jawline.

I don't trust anyone who take out their eyes before laughing.

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