Monday, February 3, 2014


Sometimes I think of those times
Before my old body dried up
And I was still drenched with you.
I know back then I was wounded,
And most likely insane,
In the old sense of dreaded sickness.
My madness manifested itself
In abandon and scorn for hope.

That world seems distant now
Until I hear bats out of hell
And electricity lightly orchestrated.
Then I cringed at the deer hunter,
As the bloody pistols cracked,
And cricket became colourful.
The football was still tougher
Than drinkers at dance venues.

There was seldom a knockback
But there were certainly some –
Always the lovers I really wanted
To stitch up the gash you fashioned.
I wrote you that long languid letter -
Pleading appeals you never answered.
And so I kept on bleeding,
Even today I wear a tourniquet.

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