sit not next to me, not close to welling sympathy –
lest illlinger and illleave, ishalllose myself in sickness,
fall back on glorious recovery.
unkempt but wondrous style that’s said to
match the angles of a fallen nation,
debris of buried civilisation;
prose disposed to poetic evolution
beneath the right conditions of
my white frustration.
in layers you see me
worked and at my worst,
nursed by tender visions
of reversed affection;
love despised and best inside
the errors of a vein let loose,
the last of lines to leave
the humours of this thermal body –
youth impervious to
all enshrined attack.
fourth encounter turned to
pleads and plasters of
his hunger’s mark, this creature’s urge to
be bit back; offence mechanism
of an extant genus hiding where
it’s sure I won’t react.