homepage poetry

death of a poet:

by india southgate.

 
i used to have
words
itching to come
crawling out of my fingers.
they used to flow out
and attach to the page
crawling over eachother
and rearranging themselves into
looping lines on the page
burrowing down
exactly how i intended.
but i forgot to write
and in their anticipation
they latched to the back of my eyes
and burrowed through my pupils
ate holes in my brain
and laid hatched
i let out five at a time.
now through pain i write
half dead, half five,
alive i write.
bored through
and in peices,
i write.
alive and bright
i write 
not moth eaten poems
holes in words 
i puncture myself.
remain unwritten,
i labour.







[unpublished]

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