If every poem you wrote blazed
ice-fire while vibrating semantic
energy there’s no rest - not that
you could maintain process like
that; where a raw potency pays
dividends the game ends - your
supposed ascendency lends an
air of ownership but truth bears
demands, a chair or the table -
whatever, frypan say or vessel
of remnants we’re heating - go
away little man, we’re too busy.
Has it happened to me, oh yes
too often to ignore but still that
benign blessing one equates a
better management than I’m a
displeasured victim of; who do
you take sideways glances at -
the same mirrored nobody it’s
always displayed, perhaps it’s
imagery with affinity I’d like to
think of as me
© 9 October 2013, I. D. Carswell
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