26 October 2013

Blazed Ice-Fire

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 

diffident witness - who’re you it 
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 

good fortune, fabulous luck, or 
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