markbousfield

GEAS OF THE ONES
Shards of twisted arm
bones

in a room
with incense burns up the wall

burns on you

I weaved grasses through the bars of sheened glass
soiled with desperate finger printclutches
covered like the ones I saw
on the public toilet wall.

Humming creases of broken orange,
rescinding the Geas on our parts for nowt,
trailing roads of whitey towers and spice market stalls
to shop every day with sprigs of saffron and snuff.

The fine journeyman swifts home on the wind.
to the one with the wife and garden alive,
to the one with teas and unlocked fences biding laughter
and all the other poisons without anchor.

To the ones that enjoy poisoning him most.