Thursday, 7 October 2010

Anger from the Downs'

You’re not well, daddy, brain is sick;
your big mind lays – will lay – to
waste all richness and delight.
I glance and gaze – and shall we touch?

You daren’t! I could call forth a tear,
a growl or little spit. In mind
you curl your fungus tongue and choke
me up in stuff. Strive to beat me.

Slow, alone, you’ll soon be bored. Kill
me off as odd or stranger, mongol,
retard. Miss the point, it’s Christmas
mate and I’m a greater gift;

a well-wrapped part of you that only
you can ever feel through me. A turn
into reality and beauty;
way before the snake – your fall.

1 comment:

  1. Hi, I just popped in to say hello, great blog, congratulations!
    You can visit mine if you feel like.
    Cheers from Argentina!