21 July 2013




It seems that every little piece which finds a place
to lodge itself – apparently without invading space
distresses me in leaving feelings worse than being
sent to rear; if contested ardently, displacing only
weaker memes there’d be no grounds to whimper
on the throne where I despair. They’re buzzing in
my ear with venom less a toxic burr in place, but
that displays thematic indices we should beware

Sensory overload declared wont clear this fancied
dross from rotting in the seams, you’re not aware
you’re filled beyond capacity – mortgaged, bound
and bonded by an input flue which chunders goo;
it’s there; your soma bears a jaundiced view you
can’t defuse – it’s time to set the bastard free ...
© 16 July 2013, I. D. Carswell