Thursday, 11 November 2010


Stuck under the spotlight of my grandfather clock dial,
If the world is a stage then i'm just a prop, a tool, until
We all stop. Then I take center stage, the monsters under
The bed are mine, intrigued. What could this creature be?

One foot and two lost all feeling forever ago, so no care
For feeling cold. I'm blind and my fingers are blue, clean
Like the hitched mask of comedy upon shimmering skin.
Like the mask of tragedy still behind every walking whim.

Every friend frozen in every memory can see, trapped in
headlights. The darkness too obscene for my audience and me;
Featherweight champ of dancing in the dark, dressed up
In apathy and a hazy cotton dew. My living dead state
Foxtrot with my Jew, the other vivid nightmares join in too.

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