WEDNESDAY 1st JULY 2009.

The sky screams my name
And I reply with bare chest
Airing;
My skin, patterned where
The sun’s lungs have already
Sung,
Lays waiting for its cloak
To soak the rest in its ochre
Coat
And groom to its tune the
Tones that only the youthful
Suit,
Whilst my mirrors lie in
Shattered piles reflecting
Shines,
Dismissed by fists pitted
With splints from previous
Seers,
And friends venting bile
Have seen the back of said
Hands,
And now only my open
Robes stay with me in my
Search
For perfection, perched
On the edge of correction’s
Burst,
Laid waiting, as bait, for
Heat’s hook to look and do its
Worst.