Tuesday, 10 November 2009


At the end of an arm’s length
Is another, and it’s
Connected to the mystery that is
The other.

That most rough cut mould, that soul parcel,
Partnered by a heart,
Marshaled by a mind and bent to

Tendered by desire’s armies
And calmed by the bruising music of
Human contact, or inflamed
By the same.

Swarming across the Earth in
Numbers unseen before in a
Being as evolved of form
As this,

Whilst each little glitter
Piece is individual to the point of
Repulsion from the majority
Of the mass.

But just ask me my name,
Paint words and facts and bridge the gap,
And slip behind my eyes
And ears and mask,

And entwine you fingerprints
With mine, deciphering the hidden
Self and helping solve
The crime of emptiness.

1 comment:

  1. The Other is forever a mystery, no doubt about it.
    Okay, okay you touched on another big one. Human contact/or inflamed by the same...I thought of 2 live electric cords with sparks pouring out their ends. We used to cut em in half & plug them in a socket & watch them writhe w/the sparks spilling out. Great fun. Perhaps I am a bit of a criminal after all, thanks