Clay More

I am moulded
Folded
Kneaded to need
Pressed to suck seed and…squeeze
Produce prose juice
Spill rose beds on to you
In spitting distance of spite
In ear shot of noon
I am burdened
With the song of clouds and pigeon rhythms
Blessed to be cursed
Stung to be strung out
On the air of a me string I am
Slung
Like a violinist tossing his bow
Wrapping the present in anything but
Rhymes
Despised by breath unless
I am mint
Spear type sparing ribs
Mete for my Adamic nature
Seeking soft walls for alternation
Conversation without mirrors
Smoke without tobacco because to you
I am not a killer
As yet for you I am
The cigarette
A hussy
Stolen four stripes dressed as three
The methadone
The 5% you drink before you leave
False claims ensuring insurance
Reassurance
Can I exhale?
Is it safe to stretch as I open my eyes
Dare I fetch my new clothes
No
The glare of 4 chords in odious clothing gleams
My nerve endings scream
Murder!
With 6 feet I am pressed down
Moulded
Folded
This has, was and remains
A slaughter house
Bloody reams,
Tribute stanzas rife
My lecherous knife slicing the rotten veins of
Mother earth
A smoking pig
A stain on your very ecru mind
An unchained rhyme
A son with darkened rays
I am the scourge of days
A Poet

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