My poetry is

my poetry is wavelengths down from the last trumpet
my poetry has been thirteen fields away from the western wall
my poetry is a million raindrops down from the nano-sphere
my poetry is fourteen cloaks away from a glass slipper

rising out of the lake like a giant key hole
travelling through the forest like a wind in the willows
circling the earth like an eagle carrying an oxygen cylinder
going home to Mum like a sack of coal in a pram

divided like a bar of chocolate between two little mouths
divided like two highways with no sideroads
divided like aa marriage with empty cupboards
divided like a family into different bumping cars at the fair

my bumping car has graffiti painted over it
my bumping car has had the seat burnt out of it
my bumping car is overturned in a scrapyard
my bumping car still has lights that flash across the other crumpled car bodies

there is a car body being taken to the police pen
there is a car body rolling over a mountain
there is a car body having its number plates stolen
there is a car body dismantled by ammunition and gunpowder

my poetry went down that road
alone and broken hearted
walking into waterfalls of madness
and crawling out of the other side

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