Monday, 6 September 2010


There’s books in us
That are waiting to be baited
From the pages
They exist upon
In the lowest depositories of our souls;

Where they sit on walnut shelves,
In velvet jackets,
Stacked to the rafters
And laughing at us
As we scramble around to reach them.

But we’ll delve
A little deeper one of these days,
And breach the caves
Where they’ve kept themselves
Sheltered from our territorial centres,

And when we do
We’ll strip the literature
From in-between their bindings
And ring the finest
Meaning from them for our own devices:

Stories of pornography,
In calligraphy,
Or mysteries ripped from time
And slipped into
A crime rate’s infrastructure;

Rhythms and rhymes
Shivered and shined
To catch mercurial modern eyes,
And shake the dust
From the crust of poetry’s current roost;

Or picture books
Struck from ice sheets
Which look quite innocent
Until heated
And melted across a manuscript;

Missives mined from memories
And rendered
At a pen’s length
Then sent upon their way
To plant greener seeds elsewhere;

Romantic novels
Exhumed from the tombs and hovels
They felt safe within
In this age of date raping
And gossip columed glossy magazines;

Children’s tales and fables,
Tabled in leather bound cases,
To be found
And placed within
The finest palaces of the rich and famous,

And biographies
Of apologies
For all the wrong doings
We’ve done
Whilst trying to run our marathons alone.

Oh there are books in us baby,
Which I will write
And you’ll provide images for
To dazzle the dimmest sights
And finish what was started in our minds.

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