Insignificant images
I couldn’t contrive
From the fancy-feigned fingers
I cut with my knife.
Wouldn’t reflect.
Well I didn’t know why...
Since defects disproportioned, viscous growth in a dime
Yet television features – refectory-right
Grinding its soda-bleached creature, engrained unto life. I wondered
Over the pain – whipping the cream, like a crime
Seeming to split something sickly in only a slice –
Inside, mixed with lies, the blade tip still shines. Gleams its disease
Through proverbial pie.
Caramelisation occurs – shorn shaves in skin shine
Waiting, complying, at so many degrees, gas mark 9. My glass empty
Yet seams spewing, darkened by wine
A dewy-deep puce of a cherry, skewered on the vine.
A stab in the heart. Ha-ha, for want, I track time
Over and over, five to, five past five – and getting closer...
That of digits, decimals, one more or less of a drive.
An obsessive reliance which rolls in our minds – a replicate giant.
Some agent now hisses – soars, sears the laced-lull of soul,
The open sores of my mind. Weak at the core.
Admittedly, prettily
End ingrains of growth still bitterly binds
The biscuits, each greened glimpse, the guillotine-topping of life. Yet how ironic,
These pieces of mind. Chronic cut-out clock-faces
Seizing sound, some of time. Tasted in breath-furls – cooked messaged insight.
Left, if you must look outside. The crook of baked salt curls into my pillow
In my forbidden midnight, leafy sinews of old tallow
Trail the glaze of your embrace, moulds liquid in light.
In the adjacent hollow, your arms, warm in the mirror.
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