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.