By Jonty Pennington-Twist
God and Poseidon;
Neither give me peace.
How can I mend this circuitry
Amid these insect whispers?
And then, there is a temple to maintain.
I cut away the ivy, brush the yellow dust
And shoo the yapping dog.
The temple though, lies empty,
Save for a prayer book
And a rushing clock.
Disintegrating,
In the company
Of countless versions of myself,
I have written of my demise
And carved in lead these sinful lines.
The wool I wear is chainmail sodden
And the carcass in which I drift,
Dislocates with every goading shunt.
I am gifted only salt.
Perhaps the dream was better left
A diagram in chalk,
Fading on the quayside?
But then,
What hope have we of triumph,
Of tasting something true and sweet
If,
Even when we know our blood is red enough,
We still,
Cannot quite slip the line?
And now,
Although a cold and wretched comfort,
At last I clearly see;
To live is to pretend,
To pretend is to conceal.
I have dreamed my very last.
I am going home.