Thursday, April 15, 2010


always dragons at the gate
usually two but for me, a village
rattling inside
a tin pot dictatorship
tourmaline candy, hard and blue
my self image myself
a shoulder bird
digging in settled
with a wince to say
not enough so loud,
be still be heard
can it not flitter off
with every wind that plays
my solution my price
works airbrush in hand
to riot the kinks out
grow the burnt pile down
from fire breathing monster
grand piano to curve scar
where strings used to play
to lemon squash courts
fast not too high
to eye iota with tears
then an atom misplaced
everywhere, everytime
a banked fire waits


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