Wednesday, 20 May 2009


A thing with pinned and needled feet
Stampedes upon the cushion of my brain
Then rests its legs.
It tacks a second time
And shakes me from a dream of
Freshly broken frost.
Half awake it makes me more
By banging on a tooth,
And visions of further carnage
In my cavities ensue.
“My ship will be
I say,
“Or develop a terrible malady.”
But nothing to bother, or swell
Over decks,
Except one more little
Cog lost to the system that neither
Man nor stanchion can
Handle, and
The whole thing will give, as
There’s no wiggle room left,
And what strength there
Was will shed any
Confirming the broke
State of its nature.

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