Friday, November 14, 2008


Reptilian melodramas
come thick and low
across the dust and fire floor
of the cold furnace
here in

Selfish salamanders
that try to tell a man to
strive to build a life
grab on for dear life
roll over
roll over
down the steep slopes
until all scale is lost
little lizard
all scale is lost
as you roll over
gather speed
and forget
that the drama
was in fact a melanoma
a piece of arse
on your nose
a fucking consience built
no beatles
just a ring
to box yourself

it was bad

Coming from behind
your neck is whistling
steel tunes which hum
tiny light slithers of danger
notes of caution
upon which to meditate
until it was time
and you remember the lessons
learned in the watercolour mountains of Iga.

Each cloud which hung with purpose

to allow the space in between

the fog

to breathe

a void empty breath.


Draw and cut, the head in front, now turn to slice the belly beside and then the master stroke behind to catch the danger unawares, to spill his blood, as your concern, survey the room, assess the damage, let every sensation come

and pass.

Then clean the blade and seat yourself.

Return to the void and empty breath.

Always ready.

Ready for Death.

So life can live.

Little lizard.

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