Like a blade

They are not about anything 

These lurid phrases 

Avoiding the point 

Evading the seance 

They are heaps of rubble 

Not the corpse 

Freshly dug

Exhumed and desecrated 

By the act of explanation 

Does a drum beat in confession 

Is a harp strung out and gaudy 

Does the trumpet learn its lesson 

Is the cello being real ? 

Thought transfuses 

Mystical energy 

From the cess pit 

Into colour 

Sometimes these soft thumps 

Of wanton intimidation 

Fall like apples 

In the street 

And they happen to recur 

As some form 

Of phantom prickle 

Formed and pointed 

By the void

My thoughts are like a fallen apple 

Bitten rashly 

Scoffed and polished 

Now they sit all bruised and rotten 

Turning to cider

Fuming with intoxication 

Instigating bursts of bitter petals 

Running through me
Sweet n rusty 

Like a blade. 

Circa June 2017