Friday, 8 January 2010


Every time I render unto something new
It reinforces my own pedantic view
That words oft spoken times before
Linger on beyond the reading of the score.
A necessity to obviate the past;
Looking backwards from a future version glass,
And aspiring to all I’ve never entered into
Has been dispelled by this vain past winter.
Or maybe ocean or northern light sky colours,
Inscribed and ambivalent on feather pillows,
Or possibly quite clear in what they’re saying
Enabling the disk to be replaying.
It is really any number of invention,
Attained and multiplied by the intention,
To be turning over all the leaves of autumn
Contained within the covers of who thought them.
Inspired or enriched by most established men,
Then broken into pieces of enlightenment,
Thumbing a nose, a lifted finger to the air,
And being right in saying any grievous thing I dare
Intend to write.

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