Monday, 10 January 2011


Somewhere in the darkened street,
Past the ever flocking fleet of taxis
And those night time bastards
Who tower, swagger after you,
But give up quick, weighed down by booze,

And under all the loose odd socks,
The dying pens, the cardboard box
That you forgot was ever there;
The things that, thrown away, strip bare
Your room and all your intuitions.

And underneath there’s still ambition,
Bubbling underneath the skin and
Letting in the light and magic,
Straying up from underbellies,
All over the world.

(Under all this is a small wizard).

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