Tuesday, 23 August 2011

Versions





She keeps your counsel,
It’s true,
I counsel myself, tears
Don’t get wiped, they seep and stain,
You have the bitter bitch to fold herself
Into your cheeks and take the luxury
Of her lovesick, disposable body,
You can bury her beneath the rubble
Of your troubles and she’ll rise again,
The Christ of Love,
The Phoenix of Polygamy,
Bringing bandage and body
Far from crusted clusters of crushed clovers
In the airy fields of Loner, I roam
The fields well, my skeletons smile,
My scarecrow’s hinges whinge and whine
The air of good company,
Life is mine, however quiet at times,
And though I have echoes and whistles
And thistle and thorn at the mercy,
And none of them flesh,
I’ll not be called mad,
I’ll not be called normal,
We’re not unlikely when we cry,
You and I,
You and Me,
Yours is a version of sanity
And mine is aversion of sanity.

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