Wednesday, 3 November 2010

POEM : The Never Hour

The space in between seven and eight
is loosely held together by artificial light.
The familiar blue prevails over insentience
as the gravitational mass multiplies
at the centre of MacDonalds.
A fellow customer asks if my top lip is real.
Some things never fail to be original,
and some things simply fail.

Too many brooms sweep away an hour that never existed.

A lip embossed on a cheek
A girl adorning the polyester of previous hours
A group incessantly trying to copulate with time and light
produce only an incestuous sunrise
Someone takes a photograph of me

thank you.

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