Sunday 15 February 2015

Raw


These hands are awful
Uncooked by experience
A grease which clings
To the eyes office.

An oesophagus
Gives no speech to the skewer
Draws the fingers demure
A black score on paper.

It is the colour of bone
And something crawls
Which would be otherwise covered
The sauce of expectancy
Dries like an enamel.
I have fried
The offal of my thoughts
And hoped
For the second course
Like the scent of a family.

Unhappily
Hard, the batter which blends
At the edge
Of bronze.
It was once conversation
Now dredged like a sugar
The tongue takes over

Yet still the palms bite
The nails like a shell
Warming the mollusc beneath.
Skin shrinks into itself, breathes
In a grief as is meted to write
Coursing on keys
Which release the type

And the smell of meat.

Completely ripe. 

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