I wasn’t breast fed. And
Most of my conversations with men, seem
Stifling. Revolving around hip size and
You probably didn’t kiss Mary when you knocked her up.
Seconds are secular, minutes, minute and
The scales of dead fish from oil slicks
Are echoes from the parties which took place
Inside Egyptian tombs and pyramids.
The factor is me,
Standing next to a photograph of a portrait of
Abraham Lincoln, Beneath the surface of our purpose
Lies rumours of ancient rain,
Different moments in time's continuum has allowed history to
catch up with
Unravel our eyelids so that we may ingest the clouds
Which have descended and are descending
London sits in what would be its shadow
Had the lack of light not meant casting shadows
Is now purely metaphorical.
Depending on how you look naked,
Stripped of demeanor,
Is hereafter how one shall judge the state of the economy
Our anatomy, large, small, slim, spot covered,
Is a far more accurate representation of what’s going on
Behind closed doors in canary wharf,
But I’ve seen David Cameron naked when we were at Eaton together,
And then again at Oxbridge,
And from experience I can assure you he looks absolutely gorgeous
Which means that we’ll be fine.
We’ll be standing alongside the bankers,
Who are currently letting the sun soak their skin
On high board Haitian holidays,
In no time at all.
Though we are small compared to rain drops,
As they fall in our mouths we may conjure silver,
The slivers that fall, scraps, from the high table,
There, Jesus sits, tired from talk, and
Full of spite for you, God.
That you have overshadowed the name of mortal men.
Lightning is crashing over me and through me as I wait outside,
Looking into the last supper through a slat in the window.
They boast and mutilate food and laugh
At the foolish lamb spinning round the base of a tree which
Grows from the floor of the room.
The lack of natural sun has stunted the growth of its leaves.
There are ice cubes lodged in my naval.
Meanwhile a woman, enclosed by a thatched litter pulled
By slaves, sits in the lotus position. Her eyes are shrouded
Behind a silk scarf. A pendant hangs from a necklace
I can comprehend its value but not its meaning.
I slept, once. Framed by the skulls of my grandparents.
We do not remember dreams, only nightmares,
Werewolves hunt in mountain ranges, slipping
Across the edge of ancient glacier lakes,
They have neglected the travails of their hearts,
Blood has been washed from their mouths,
They dance in worship of Saturn, a planet fringed by a rainbow,
For they know only believers in death, die.
They would sing, yet their lips have been sown together,
And their tongues sit in the back of their throats,
My darling Saturn.
You are not mine to own, nor mine to satiate,
Ride the tide towards divinity,
Senses; now finely tuned instruments,
Follow the voice of children, dancing for the devil.
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