Saturday, January 9, 2010


... which is to say that for all the density of my teaspooned words, for all that the nothing was curved precipitously to your void, that god's trigger-finger had been ripped from the hard hand which feeds, that the resilient vacancy of your centre was bound more tenuously than language between the molecules of the word spleen, which is to speak by halves of your holeness, for all my spat polish and my tuesday suit, I was the inept shoe directed vaguely at a cold hearth. I was a needle taken up against the fire.

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This work by Robert Edward Bolton is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 South Africa License