Sunday, 29 May 2011


The writer knows not of your life. 
He spends his hours unwisely, silently, pausing in caliginosity.
I ask him the time and he offers me no conclusion.
His hands tremble and his eyes are clouded, dulled by the constancy of studiousness. 
A new word emerges like a lost leviathan amongst the pages. 
It ignites a fantasy in his mind which burns long into a tropical night.
He absorbs it ravenously into himself and it sinks into the tar-pit of his vocabulary. 
A fossilised monster, immortalised in it's struggle with death, vanishes downwards, slowly into the great abyss of the English tongue.

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