Sunday, 14 February 2010


The peculiar anger of righteous indignation. Accused of guilt when innocent. Called dirt when generous. Always ever only in my head, of course. The hand, open, proffers a jewel. The definition is a grasping turd. These things run true to the blood. They walk throughout the long corridors of the cloister - monks debating Plato's horses. Ever the same. Things that are marred. Purest of thoughts transmute to blood and shit; they cluster on the eye of the onlooker. Greasy palimpsests, hiding gentleness. The ineluctability of the rubber-band attentiveness. Jongleurs under the star named Disaster. Accusation brings forth pity. Defence is postponed, lest it raise ruthlessness. All these are true, in all manners.

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