Thursday, 22 July 2010

Beggars of life,
we search for the Wilde ones, the vatic* tramps

Weathered and dog-eared, we hurl ourselves over the cliff edge
and cling on only by silver threads spun out of the past

But with boy's own biceps we climb back up,
seal our cuts with electrical tape and torn dresses

and a-top the broken skylight we stand; facing East,

and shout

*of, pertaining to, or characteristic of a prophet

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