Tuesday, 4 December 2012


and long Purples,
That liberall Shepheards giue a grosser name;
But our cold Maids doe Dead Mens Fingers call them. 

From Gertrude's description of Ophelia's drowning: Shakespeare, 'Hamlet', Act IV scene VII

The fifth creature asks if I’ve a letter for it?

I have but I’m not telling.

At the fair is a woman who tells fortunes and who can become

A moonbeam at will, thus overnight I’ve acquired

A lower lip piercing

(Feeling sexy is so personal)

And become a night-watchman

Blowing on frozen fingers

Calling the hours by their names.

Or perhaps so impersonal?

The Solitary, silver-rayed, never speaking except

In future tongue. In present

This is spat – “a time of austerity”

The rich stuffing the poor

Into drooling bourgeois / aristo gobs

The rich categorising the sick

The vulnerable scroungers (overnight my hair

Has turned purple as Ophelia’s)

The time of being suicided o

Imagine if the world was flat,

Who would dare to play hopscotch? 

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