The concentration camp of poetry
Sits in a clearing in the woods
No need for guns; they are only words
And those that escape will starve in a foreign land
The present moment
The present moment is nothing
My relationship with the day is broken
A cracked mirror of the sea with no reflection
I run through the pages of time
Looking for the granite of love
A morsel from the masters table
A drip from the ketchup bottle
London wearies to the marrow
I think blessed are they who live
Far away from here, this city
Is a honey pot covered in flies
