Monday, 13 June 2016


Disquiet moulds itself to me
As I chew the gloopy rain.
Prisms of sanctity, or sanity,
Wherewithal-washed clay,
A golem, I suppose, simple
Of thought, destiny, drear:
To follow or to flee –
The future scolds, scalds.

Demented, perhaps now, the
Past eschewed, droopy, fain
Rhythms of slurry, of vanity
Here venal-varnished stay.
Impotent to unfold into
A clout, stytmied by fear:
To wallow or to be –
The question tramps, damp.

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