Monday, February 3, 2014


What’s looking at you won’t avert its eyes –
what isn’t, won’t admit you’re there.
Such are the wellings-up of consciousness
that flood your psyche’s murky air –

faintly caviling in sleep – grumpy dreaming
beasts’ unhappy sighs; or holy roods
erupting out of lust – sharp phallic crucifixes.  
They’re what you know as moods.


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