PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Ah, the aberrant hair is out!

Root and gland, then the cold flush

Weaves baskets of shallow cups



To wash and drain the abscess

Of pretence: Sir, you do not belong

Here nor there, not even Mother Earth



Can marry water to fire, a glamourous

Clamour of dirty hands push and prod

Through the square to bloody gallows



For the herd to gawp and shield their eyes

(Blind anyway) from the starkness of myth

Their profound illusions the holiest of truths



But there is a spider on the wall, eight hands

Draw shadows, each apex a juncture of judgements

And its reason leaves an indelible bite



The apple of temptation, a core of mirrors

Sows seeds like a blunt blow to the head

The contusion blooms, a haemorrhage of sensation

      

        Morality in a half nelson.



NJP 4/11/2003