Monday, 20 September 2010


When I was running away today --
Away from the town where a prison of water is loved
Away, to the fields between a livery and a forest
I was sweating and aching calves, and the brambles yielded no sweet harvest
And in the trees under which I used to lie
There was a grave.
(Dead candles, and letters in plastic bags, and three small jars of earth.)
-- I approached the wolfram helmet
and watched it shudder away from my conscient thought
“I will be in Iceland soon."
I was powerful and kind
In Iceland I will also glisten and my calves will also burn and the barren land will yield no berries, sweet or other
But it is an island ghosted by exonerated winds of absolution, where struggles are not struggles
And if they are they go unresented
Instead they go by firmity and patience
Limitless halation will succeed a waterside doused in cast off salt
So, in my potent and sinew-bound spirit
Wisdom can flourish.


Yeah sorry I’ve been writing weird stuff like this for days. Don’t worry, I’m not even going to try to call it poetry.

Well, I hope I can get it out of my system before it becomes chronic.

Or maybe I’ll get better.

Listening to: ‘Voice in my Throat’ by Pearl & The Beard

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