For breakfast I eat up my vowels, my a e i o u, to which I add from consonants a fricative or two;
After that I move my bowels then write as poets do, and frequently am quite surprised to feel a trill come through.

Thursday, 7 April 2011


Lost in the missed 
tongue twisted ties of word to thing,
knotted and made nought.

Writ in the mist
fogged breath window of a mind,
wiped and clean slated.

Woke by a kiss
goodbye of strangers, long known,
or so we are told.

And so it is
we are lost to each other,
but love keeps searching.

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