All dried up

the poetry no longer flows

is it the starting point of something


or the begin of the end?

It is about the rights of all to make it,

to make the useful known splendours

of the coastline feel like the zone

of efficiency about which we turn.

Introduce a feather with deft touch

and throw in a burr, all hooked

in your woolley jumper like

thought in a tangled brain.

Schizophrenia is its own place

a version of events not sown

drama instilled by following thought

patterned youthful ardent replacement.

It does not throw you a flower

it offers nothing, rewarding sanctity

with virus-strewn wickedness

and evoking roller-coaster turns

and hair-raising. Scalp me and you shall see

the mesh that is my brain, the hazards

that chemistry has yielded through

the darkest medicines known to man.

It closes the rentboy off from the rooms he has

rented, it opens doors for whores to come

and use, for their wishes are but space

and time alone with you.


Space for rent.



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