Tuesday, 8 February 2011

Morning Broken


In a bed that pins me with its springs
And hugs me to its breast
I squirm out from its embrace
Under the spell of cellular sirens

Life is a Bip
Repeated in nine-minute cycles;
I am in mourning.

I zombie-walk into a shower
Spitting hot and cold curses on tired skin
And the mirror always lies
Shows me glimpses of my father.


I pray for steam;
There are never enough clouds
To hide the lies the body tells


Today I'd rather be elsewhere
Ever other where
Than inside my stiff unironed sleeves

I wear them underneath time-worn layers
Bury them deep
Doors bip-bipping shut
While my unlaced feet find a place
In between commuting minds

And So

I'd rather be
Sprung back into your bed
Under the spell of your embrace
Your siren-like glimpses
Penetrating my skin

There are never enough lies
Too many hidden curses
Underneath stiff lips
Too many closed minds

And one more thing:
Not enough earth to bury them in.

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