Saturday, 24 September 2011


A poisonous empty bubble of something undiagnosed,
Inflating and exploding in the pond of bad taste.
And it is a pond, because rivers go somewhere;
Ponds stagnate and are only frequented by those
Who know where they are.
This bubble is putrid. She fills with air of her own accord and she will not be alright.
She is painful as wind in the gut after a meal,
Long precipitated by days of malnourishment.
(She has a rainbow sheen in the right light, but this is just the oil.)
She is vapid, a fragile construction of pressure and water.
And all she wants to do is to burst
And rejoin the vapour from whence her toxins came.

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